They Who Inherited The Earth
by Freya1867
Summary: Follows Skwisgaar and Toki as they bid for escape from Scandinavia, and end up in the throws of Dethklok. Leads right up to where we know their legacy takes off. Formally known as 'Empire'. No slash.
1. Prologue

**Chapter Summary and Notes: **

**We walk alongside Skwisgaar as he meets Toki for the first time. His first impression is not an entirely good one.**

- The characters are all speaking in their native tongues, so no pidgin English quite yet.

- I apologize if Skwisgaar seems out of character, but keep in mind that he's still young, here. Give him a chance to grow, and we'll soon have the pompous guy that we all love and know.

* * *

Skwisgaar Skwigelf had grown quite used to the way that things were in Norway. Though he lived in Sweden - and had, for his entire life - the fact that he and his mother resided so close to the border between the neighboring Scandinavian countries ensured that the two of them spent a healthy amount of time in both nations. Of course, their motives in visiting Norway as much as they spent time in Sweden were completely different, as were their lifestyles. For Serveta, Skwisgaar's mother, it was all a matter of finding the next man that could temporarily satisfy her staggering sexual needs.

For Skwisgaar, it was all a matter of culture.

To say that he had merely submerged himself into the blackened sea of heavy metal music would be a gross underestimation. More accurately, Skwisgaar had drowned in it. Perhaps the time he took in being overwhelmed by its current would have been more drawn out, had he dipped his toes into it first, evaluated the temperature, and then entered at the appropriate speed. However, the way that the waters claimed him was a manner in which other saturated corpses also spoke of. They hadn't been given a chance to consider their options as a tidal wave emerged from the darkness, crashed down upon them, and pulled them back into its depths. After all, this particular body of water was unforgiving, and downright brutal when it wanted to be.

But Skwisgaar never uttered a sound that could be mistaken as non-consensual. He did not struggle for his previous life, for he felt as soon as that wave hit him that it was not worth fighting for. Before that fateful night in Kristiansand, Norway, he had been an awkward nine-year-old boy, who did not bother to make friends in the two years that he'd lived in Eda with his mother. He'd had friends up north in his old hometown, but he had a feeling that, just as he'd nearly forgotten their names and faces, so they had his. He was quiet, which suited Serveta well. Skwisgaar sometimes wondered if that particular attribute of his was responsible for his mother's unwillingness to talk to him, express any affection, or even _look_ at him. He was smart, with the dream that one day he would fly an airplane.

Oh, how things had changed since then.

That night had shed upon him a sensation of power that he was not familiar with. His hands had shaken, he had trouble gathering his breath, and his head and heart had thudded in unison. Excitement coursed through his veins, and he had felt drunk. However, unlike his mother, when _she_ drank, Skwisgaar did not feel angry. He felt like an artist who'd just finished their first painting. He felt like a teenager who had just managed in sneaking a kiss from their secret crush. He felt like a priest who had just seen God. He felt, for the first time in his life, as though he belonged.

That very night, he started saving his money. When they returned home, he removed the Ibanez that someone had given his mother as a gift from its case, and slowly began to play. When autumn came, he enrolled himself in music lessons. When he discovered that he could not read music to save his life, he was not deterred, like his instructor was. Besides, why bother learning to read the music when you possessed the ability to pick it up by ear? This finding had taken him to Eda's record shop in search for music, and eventually to Oslo when he deemed the selection not wide enough. Soon, the sea of heavy metal had claimed him fully for its own. The music and its ideology, rawness, and power surrounded him. His dream to become a pilot took a back seat. His weekends and holidays were spent in various towns and cities as he leapt from band to band. His afternoons were spent holed up in his bedroom with just his guitar and stereo. He made friends. He discovered the alluring nature of the opposite sex. He developed a reputation. He experienced the fulfillment that came with writing and playing original material, and the resulting ecstasy of being well received by a group of complete strangers. He had found his niche.

His path was straightforward, but with many branching trails. Each trail led to the same outcome: success. Even though the paths were laden with weeds, thistles, and uncountable twists and turns, he was moving forward, and that was all that counted. The particular route that he had chosen for now had brought him to the eve of his fourteenth birthday. It had brought him into the company of three other, older boys. It had brought him to a small town a few hours northwest of his home in Eda.

And it would soon bring him to meet a young boy named Toki Wartooth.

* * *

Even though it was late May, a chilly wind cut through the air, and hazarded to numb the sore muscles in Skwisgaar's arms and hands. The adrenaline rush that he had felt not an hour ago was beginning to wane, as it always did when he got offstage. The sensation of his blond, shoulder-length hair brushing against the base of his neck did not help quell the shiver that rode up his spine. As he rubbed his arms and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he couldn't help but wish that, like his band mates, he had brought a coat.

He had hoped to find solace from the weather in the alleyway behind the bar they had just played at. Even though a few minutes of labor had definitely helped him generate a small portion of body heat, he could no longer ignore that the black tee shirt he had chosen to wear for the night was thinner than usual. He hoped that he and the other members of Gognogmug would soon be able to subject themselves to the Godsend of a heater in Tallak's van, now that their gear and instruments had been loaded up. Said drummer seemed also to entertain the idea, but neither he nor Skwisgaar were the one that made the band's decisions. That particular role was left for Arvid, their vocalist and frontman.

"Fuck, that went well," Arvid harshly spoke as he slammed the back of the van shut. "What say we go back into the bar and celebrate?"

Skwisgaar, Tallak, and Egil, their bassist, all exchanged a small look of exasperation. Egil rubbed the back of his neck, and turned away from the conversation. Skwisgaar looked over at Tallak, who then replied with a minor slur. "We can't, Arvid. Skwisgaar's too young. You remember what the owner said. They'd only let him in for the show."

The Singer's dark eyes darted towards Skwisgaar, and for a moment, the fourteen-year-old Swede thought that he was going to lay unjustified blame upon him. However, Arvid merely sniffed in annoyance, and pursed his lips as he then commenced to hum in thought. "Well, I suppose that we _could_ crack a few open at my house. I'm going to go back in and buy some beer, then. My dad's starting to notice that _his_ are disappearing. Why don't you swing the van around front?"

Tallak nodded his agreement, causing Skwisgaar to exhale inwardly with relief. He didn't know how much longer he could hide the fact that he was cold from the others. Of course, they must have known that he couldn't _possibly_ be warm, with the way that he had dressed, but he still felt the need to not showcase his discomfort. After all, the last thing that he wanted was another point for Arvid to add onto the little mental list he carried around, detailing the many ways as to how Skwisgaar was unsatisfactory. Though, perhaps that would keep the older boy from bringing up his age so often ...

Arvid disappeared around the corner, and Skwisgaar followed Egil to the right side of the van. He climbed in behind the bassist, and took his usual seat on the crusty bench inside. The van roared to life, and Skwisgaar sighed aloud as the artificial warmth began to beat against his skin.

"You ought to bring a jacket next time," Tallak eyed Skwisgaar pointedly as he glanced over his shoulder. "Lillehammer is still cold at this time of the year."

Skwisgaar nodded, but did not meet Tallak's gaze. He made a mental note, but not that he would bring a jacket the next time he ventured north for band practice. Instead, he noted that he would tap into his precious Guitar Fund and buy one after school on Monday.

Tallak, Egil, and Arvid did not know what Skwisgaar's home life consisted of. They did not know that Skwisgaar was forced to buy his own meals, mend his own clothes, and wake himself up for school every morning. The only things that they were aware of, in fact, were that Skwisgaar played the guitar, he played it well, and had already been in more bands at his tender age than most middle-aged men.

They had scooped him up a mere two weeks ago, after witnessing an onstage quarrel between Skwisgaar and the rhythm guitarist of the band that he'd been playing with at that time. Skwisgaar remembered the night fairly clearly. That is, until he experienced the odd sensation of having been in the middle of a solo, and then was suddenly berating the other guitarist, who was nearly in tears. He recalled nothing in between, but tensions _had_ been running high between he and Bjorn. When he left the stage that night, he'd found himself immediately surrounded by Tallak, Arvid, and Egil, and was being sold on the idea of joining Gognogmug. He agreed right away, as soon as Arvid made it clear that he would be the _only_ guitarist.

They had been surprised as to how quiet Skwisgaar truly turned out to be. Or, that was the impression that he got, anyways. The fact that they seemed alarmed by how little he spoke told him that, when he had fought with Bjorn, he had showcased a false inclination towards extreme anger and a raised voice. Plus, his throat _had_ been sore afterward, and his voice slightly raspy ...

It was strange, because he never let his emotions overtake him. In fact, he hardly ever even _harbored_ such strong resentment. He'd just always had a difficult time in getting along with other guitarists when they were playing in the same band. Maybe with all the adrenaline and testosterone coursing through him in that moment, the slight twinge of irritation that he usually felt in the pit of his stomach when Bjorn messed up the guitar lines that _he'd_ written had been blown out of proportion. It certainly wasn't normal, after all, that he'd acted that way.

He'd been mildly amused at how Gognogmug tiptoed around him for their first few practices, but they soon caught on that Skwisgaar was not perpetually outraged. They relaxed - all but Arvid. When he had learned that Skwisgaar would not lose his temper over the most trivial of things, his snide remarks began. Skwisgaar had a very good feeling that, just like every other band he'd been in, this one would not work out.

Skwisgaar was brought out of his thoughts when the passenger door ahead of him slammed shut, and Arvid's gruff voice greeted his ears. "Let's get out of here. I think the guy at the counter might suspect my ID was fake."

Skwisgaar's blue eyes traveled out the window again, and landed upon the bar's adjoining liquor store. Sure enough, the shopkeeper was glaring suspiciously out the front window, and seemed to be considering calling them back. However, before the man could make up his mind, Tallak had slammed the van into gear, and they had left the place in the thick, black smoke spurting out from the exhaust pipe.

They hadn't been driving for more than fifteen seconds when Skwisgaar heard the tab being pulled on Arvid's first beer of the night. As their singer commenced to down it all in one go, Skwisgaar sunk further down in his seat. Next to him, Egil did the same. Neither of them appreciated Arvid very much when he was drunk. He made it his mission while inebriated to pick on Skwisgaar, and ever since Egil had stuck up for him the weekend before, he too had been shown no mercy.

Arvid burped loudly when he finished his beer, causing everyone else in the van to wrinkle their noses in distaste. That was another thing that they did not like. Arvid was not a well-mannered man to begin with, but _all_ politeness and consideration became forgotten in this situation. He then crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder, narrowly missing Egil. Tallak frowned at Arvid, unimpressed with the fact that the singer was littering in his vehicle. "I hope you're going to pick that up."

"Later," Arvid waved him off before detaching another beer from the six-pack.

Tallak opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then merely shook his head in defeat. Skwisgaar did not blame him; it was utterly pointless. Arvid might _say_ that he would tend to it later, but when later came ... all in the vehicle knew that it would be Tallak collecting the offending, aluminum can.

Skwisgaar watched without interest out the window as the scenery passed him by. Their gig had been early, and so night had not yet fallen upon the town. He looked at the people that wandered the streets, and couldn't help but feel as though something was out of place. The people that had roamed the town in the daylight hadn't looked like this ...

As though on cue to answer his questioning mind, Arvid grunted. "Can you believe those weirdoes? You'd think they'd have the common sense to wait until night had completely come before they started flocking toward that church."

Tallak and Egil muttered their agreement. Tallak scoffed slightly, and smirked at the singer. "Didn't you try to get into that building, once?"

"Ja, a few years ago," Arvid replied unabashedly. "I wanted to see what kind of a faith it was. Judging by the way they're dressed, I bet you that they're some sort of derivative of the Satanic church."

"Laveyan, you mean?" Egil asked with furrowed eyebrows.

Skwisgaar could see Arvid shrug. "Don't think so. They would have let me in, then, wouldn't they, if I showed interest?"

"What did they do?"

"Just turned me away," Arvid snipped. "I told them over and over again that I wanted to come in, but they just kept pushing me back."

Tallak narrowed his eyes in thought. "I heard a rumor once that you needed to be born into their faith in order to belong to it. Maybe that's why you weren't allowed in: your parents don't belong to the church."

Arvid chortled cruelly. "It's just as well. Can you imagine having to wear those robes all year round? They wouldn't be good for any season, as far as I think. I mean, they'd be too thin for the winter, too thick for the summer ... they might be comfortable, on a night like this, though."

Arvid stopped speaking as the pull on the van became more obvious, and they were soon turning into his driveway. The house was dark. Since it had a garage, Skwisgaar did not know if Arvid's parents were gone, or if they were just in bed. It hardly mattered, though. He had only seen his parents once since he started playing with Gognogmug. The band spent most of their time down in the basement, either drinking, sleeping, practicing, or smoking pot. Skwisgaar had yet to actually take a toke of Arvid's weed, but that was only because he didn't need to in order to get high. The basement was so teemed with smoke that merely poking your head into the doorway leading down to the second level was enough to get a hit.

Skwisgaar threw the van door open when they came to a complete stop, and went straight for the back. He grabbed his own guitar case, slung it over a shoulder, and then did the same for Egil's bass. He grabbed the bass drum, and slowly began to make his way towards the front door, where Arvid fumbled with his house key. Once he had gotten the door unlocked, he passed by Skwisgaar to grab a load, too. The Swede invited himself into Arvid's home, and immediately made for the basement. He balanced the drum between the wall and his chest while he opened the basement door, and was soon hit by the strong, stale smell of marijuana. There was no point in trying to hold his breath, as he'd discovered the first time he'd come here, and so went about his business as normally as possible. He set the drum down in the corner, and placed the guitars against the wall. He ran back up the stairs and back outside to grab two more loads consisting of amps before he collapsed lazily onto Arvid's broken couch, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

Arvid mimicked his initial action, throwing himself onto the opposite end and opening another beer. As Egil and Tallak sat down on the other furniture, Arvid tossed them each one of their own. Skwisgaar heard three cracks, and then Egil speak. "Cheers."

There was a brief silence as the three older boys drank to their successful first gig. A few smacking lips and a small burp followed it, and then a soft chuckle. "Kid's dead asleep, I think."

"He put on a good set, though," Tallak quietly told Arvid, as though worried he'd wake their retired guitarist. "He deserves to sleep."

Skwisgaar could tell by the hesitation that Arvid thought otherwise. "I figured he'd want to celebrate with us."

"Just give him a few minutes-"

"Skwisgaar," Arvid sternly spoke. "You awake, still?"

Skwisgaar's head lulled to the side, and he opened one eye. He made to voice a response, but Arvid was talking again. "Do you want a beer? I got enough for you."

He shook his head, and closed his eye again. It wasn't so much that he was tired, but that he had no desire whatsoever to face Arvid when he finally became drunk. He was well on his way, judging by his developing slur. If Skwisgaar fell asleep, or at least pretended to be out for the night, he could maybe avoid the inevitable.

"All right." To Skwisgaar's surprise, Arvid didn't sound angry or annoyed at all. "More for me then, I guess."

The stillness that followed this proclamation voiced the others' thoughts perfectly. _'Great.'_

Skwisgaar opened his eyes wide enough to see through his eyelashes. To his left, Arvid was opening another beer. Across from him, in a ratty recliner, Tallak eyed Arvid warily. Skwisgaar could see why; lines became more and more pronounced on Arvid's forehead as he pounded beer after beer back. This could only mean one thing. Pretty soon, Arvid would be well and ready to begin one of his infamous rampages or rants. Skwisgaar wondered what the subject would be, for it couldn't possibly be he or Egil. They were both, as far as Skwisgaar guessed, now feigning slumber.

Arvid frowned at the floor, and crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm out of beer."

Tallak visibly braced himself. This was it - the first red flag for the night. "Well, I'm sorry dude, but I've had too much to drink. If I get pulled over drunk again, they're going to take my license away-"

"Well, my record is clean," Arvid cut him off as he hoisted himself to his feet. "Give me your keys."

Tallak's hand went immediately to his pocket. "No way! You've had _way_ too much! You'll crash it."

Skwisgaar decided at this that it was time to 'wake up'. Now that he knew he would not be Arvid's subject of degradation for the evening, it was safe. Egil did the same, he noticed.

Arvid took a step towards the drummer, who immediately put his hands up in defense. Skwisgaar could nearly hear his buzzed brain thinking. "Look, if you want some bad enough, we could walk. It's not like it's very far to that other place-"

Arvid slowed in his advance. Through the fog that the alcohol had provided him, he processed this proposal. Finally, after a tense moment, Arvid slowly nodded. As the man relaxed, Skwisgaar saw that his fists had been clenched at his sides.

The singer glanced around the room, and when he saw that everyone's attention rested on him, he jerked his head in the direction of the staircase. "Come on, let's go, then."

Without a second glance back, he left them. Egil grunted as he stood up and followed. Skwisgaar was behind him, but stopped with one foot on the bottom step when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Skwisgaar turned back to face Tallak, and found the drummer holding his thick coat out to him. "Here, you're going to need this."

His blue eyes studied the coat before hesitantly taking it. He could feel his cheeks flush ever so slightly, and he made every effort not to make eye contact with Tallak. "I don't think-"

"I've got a sweater. You'll need this more." Tallak clapped him on the shoulder again before brushing past him in pursuit of Arvid and Egil. Skwisgaar watched after him, holding the man's jacket forlornly in his hands. When Tallak had disappeared, his gaze fell down onto the article of clothing he held. The longer he stared at it, the closer his eyebrows moved together.

He cursed Tallak for being so kind to him all the time. Skwisgaar had learned early on in his venture to be a guitarist that he should not grow close to other members in his bands. He never stayed long, and the more detached he was from them, the easier it was to tell them that he had found a better deal with some other hopeful group of musicians. Gognogmug was going to be hard to leave, when the time came. Arvid, he would have no problem whatsoever letting go. In fact, he hoped that once his time in Gognogmug had run its course, he never saw the putrid man again. Tallak, however ... might be harder.

"Hey!" a harsh voice came from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you, down there? Let's go! I'm starting to sober up."

A lurch of the stomach accompanied Skwisgaar's sneer. However, he did not dare defy Arvid when the prospect of unwanted sobriety loomed before him. He was not sure if the man would be inclined to bring him physical harm in his state, or not. So, instead of arguing, he threw Tallak's coat over his shoulders, and ran up the stairs to join the rest of the band.

They stepped back into the chilling night, and were on their way down the street once Arvid had locked up the house behind them. Arvid laid trail, and so the others merely followed at a healthy distance. The Norwegian wind pummeled against them, and Skwisgaar pulled Tallak's coat tighter around him. He wished briefly that he had a toque and some mittens, but these had been items that he chose not to purchase. Every time that he made to dip into his Guitar Fund, he reminded himself of what he wanted more than anything in the world. In his mind, suffering through the cold, Scandinavian winters would be well worth it when he was finally able to pawn off his Ibanez and indulge in a Gibson.

A sniff of annoyance was heard from the front of the group, and Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. He kicked a rock off the sidewalk, and watched as it disappeared onto the street, away from the streetlamp. He prepared himself to ignore whatever Arvid was about to say, but words never came. Instead, an arm shot out as Arvid came to a stop. Skwisgaar looked up at him in confusion as it connected with his chest, but then saw how intently the singer was staring ahead. Skwisgaar followed his line of vision, and soon saw what had caught his attention.

It was the church that the people had been moving towards earlier that evening. Candlelight could be seen through the stained windows and quiet chanting heard, but this was not what had captured Arvid. It was what sat on the front steps, or who, more accurately. Skwisgaar squinted into the darkness, and saw that it was a little kid, probably only a few years younger than himself.

As his eyes adjusted, Skwisgaar came to assume that it was a boy, even though the length of the kid's hair would have been considered more acceptable for a girl. It was not the kid himself that compelled Skwisgaar to speak, but what he was holding. "_Pfft_, look at his grandpa's guitar."

Arvid smirked and looked at Skwisgaar appreciatively. For a moment, Skwisgaar assumed that Arvid would take the comment in stride, and they would continue on their way to the liquor store. Instead, though, he chuckled, stepped off the sidewalk, and began to make his way towards the church. "Come on. This could turn out better than getting drunk."

Egil made a sound of disgust. "Arvid, _no_. He's just a little kid-"

A glare silenced him.

Beside Egil, Tallak anxiously tucked a loose strand of hair in behind his ear. He watched Arvid as he steadily tread along the beaten path. "We _should_ try to stop him ..."

It was unanimously decided, and so Egil, Tallak, and Skwisgaar followed Arvid. However, their singer had been quicker, and by the time they'd reached the church, he had already begun his taunting.

"Do your parents go to church here?"

Skwisgaar was surprised that Arvid's harsh voice did not cause the young boy to jump where he sat. Instead, he stopped casually strumming his guitar, and slowly brought his gaze to meet Arvid's. Given the immaturity about his appearance and his miniscule size, Skwisgaar mentally placed his age as somewhere around ten.

Arvid crossed his arms. "Well? Do your parents attend this church?"

The boy failed to answer. Instead, his pale blue eyes moved away from Arvid and traveled over the other band members, who loomed unwillingly in the background. They had merely grazed Skwisgaar when Arvid snapped his fingers impatiently in front of the boy's face. "Don't speak much, do you?"

He laughed cruelly, and glanced over his shoulder at Skwisgaar. The guitarist's eyes remained stuck on a speck of dirt they had found on his left boot. He didn't want any part of this, bullying a small child. It was reprehensible. Besides, what if they got into trouble?

"Maybe _this_ will loosen your tongue."

Skwisgaar brought his attention back to the scene before him. His mouth fell open when he saw Arvid step forward towards the boy, and rip the guitar from his grasp. However, instead of yelling at the older boy to give it back, crying about being stripped of his possession, or anything else that Skwisgaar was sure _he'd_ do in this situation, the kid continued to sit in silence, his face blank and unreadable. For all the emotion that he was showing, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Arvid became frustrated quickly, irritated at his inability to force a reaction from the young boy. This did not end his endeavor, though. "Wait a minute ... I've seen you walking around with that guy with that hat. You're the reverend's son, aren't you? How come you aren't in there, drinking pig's blood with the rest of them?"

Nothing.

"Let's _go_, Arvid," Tallak whispered. "Give him back his guitar, and let's get out of here."

Skwisgaar gauged the note of uncertainty in Tallak's voice. Was he unsettled by the kid's antisocial nature? He didn't blame him, really, if this were true ... it _was_ a little odd.

Arvid seemed torn. It was apparent that he wanted nothing more than to bother this kid further, but his lack of effect had discouraged him. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his choices, but before he could make up his mind, the double doors at the top of the stairs opened.

Having been concentrating on Arvid's ploy, Skwisgaar failed to realize that the chanting ended some time ago. As he looked up at the equally stunned congregation with wide mouth and eyes, he urged his feet to carry him away. With the multitude of looks he was receiving from the church members, he didn't even think that stopping at Arvid's house would suffice. In fact, the thought of sprinting the two-hundred kilometer distance back to his mom's house in Eda seemed all the more appealing in this moment.

From the crowd above, there emerged a woman. She descended the stairs towards the small boy, and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her gaze never once wavered from Arvid, and the intense lifelessness behind her pupils had pushed even _him_ back a few steps. Skwisgaar waited for the woman to say something - anything - but just like the boy, she seemed incapable of speech.

A hand closed around Skwisgaar's upper arm, and he realized that Tallak was pulling him back towards the sidewalk. "Let's leave."

Skwisgaar couldn't think of a better idea. Once Tallak had prompted him, he found himself running across the lawn, closely followed by the rest of Gognogmug. He did not stop, slow, or glance back over his shoulder until Arvid's house came into view. When they reached the entrance, Arvid fumbled shakily with his house key. After stepping inside and slamming the door behind him, he sunk down against it.

Skwisgaar bent forward onto his knees as he attempted to catch his breath. He became aware that Tallak's coat was suffocating him, now that they had arrived at the warm house. He peeled the leather off his sticky skin, and dropped it listlessly onto the floor. He looked over at Arvid, his mouth agape with unspoken words. He didn't know what he wanted to say, but knew that their singer would not be spared some form of the phrase _'I told you so.'_

Something was wrong with Arvid, though, and this rendered Skwisgaar speechless. He'd never seen the man so vulnerable or afraid, before. He shook from head to toe, and a fine layer of sweat shone on his forehead. He clutched his knees to his chest, and stared wide-eyed at a discernable spot on the wall opposite. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly, and muttered incoherently under his breath.

"Dude, are you all right?" Tallak quietly asked.

"Did you hear it?" Arvid replied in a forlorn voice. "Did you hear what she said to me?"

Skwisgaar furrowed his eyebrows as he recalled the night's most recent event. As far as he could remember, the woman hadn't spoken a word to him.

"What are you talking about?"

Arvid shuddered and shook his head. He did not want to talk about it anymore, as far as they were concerned. "Never mind. Maybe I - Maybe I'll just go to bed."

Tallak, Egil, and Skwisgaar watched as their singer rose shakily to his feet and stumbled towards the hallway. They remained in the kitchen as they listened to him noisily descend into the basement, and then heard the soft slam of his bedroom door. They glanced at each other with uncertainty, and then slowly made their own way to the lower level, where they too would try to sleep and forget about their odd night. Their earlier gig was forgotten - it felt like days ago that they had been on stage.

Skwisgaar claimed the couch that he'd been sitting on earlier, and closed his eyes immediately upon resting his head on the armrest. Another chill was present along his spine, but this time, it had nothing to do with the coldness outside. In fact, the last things that he saw before finally losing consciousness were the icy grey eyes of the reverend's wife and the pale blues of her strange son.

* * *

Skwisgaar awoke quite suddenly in the night, and realized after a few brief seconds of disorientation that something was most definitely wrong. The dark basement was alight with screams, pleas, and a loud, repeated banging. He jumped up from where he lie, and looked around with bleary eyes. Two silhouettes stood against Arvid's bedroom door, one pounding ruthlessly against it, and the other yelling at the top of their lungs.

"Arvid! What's going on in there?" It was Tallak, and he was frightened.

A long string of expletives followed this question, nothing of which actually answered it. Skwisgaar tried to get his bearings on the situation, but it was not easy with his still-tired mind. He flinched as a loud bang came from within the bedroom. It sounded as though Arvid had run headlong into the wall. Scurrying followed, and more light pleading. "Don't kill me, please, don't kill me ..."

Tallak was as startled by these words as Skwisgaar was. "_Arvid!_"

"Don't kill me, don't kill me, don't - oh ... oh _God!_ What are you _doing!?_" This was followed by an ear-piercing screech and what had to be flailing limbs. When the air in Arvid's lungs ran out, sobbing and heavy breathing succeeded his previous noise. "Please ... I didn't know, _I didn't know-!_"

And then there was silence.

Skwisgaar could nearly smell the fear of his band mates. Now that his mind had been roused, he too began to feel it. He ran forward, and joined Egil and Tallak as they began trying to break down Arvid's door, but if the blood seeping out from underneath it told them anything, it was that there was nothing that could be done.


	2. One

**One: When The Mighty Fall, They Fall Hard**

**Chapter Summary and Notes: **

**After two years of absence, Skwisgaar returns to Lillehammer. **

- This was meant to be two seperate chapters, but I couldn't figure out how to split it. I think it works fine as just one, though.

- I am very aware of the fact that Skwisgaar plays an Explorer.

* * *

_The stadium was packed to full capacity, and the pandemonium emanating from the crowd threatened to overtake Skwisgaar's ears. It was a good thing that he remembered to wear his earplugs - like he'd ever forget._

_"Ladies and gentlemen, what you've all been waiting for," a deep, grumbling voice addressed the crowd, and achieved the impossible by causing the commotion to double in volume. "The fastest guitarist in the world, Skwisgaar Skwigelf!"_

_Skwisgaar raised his hand lazily to greet his fans. Though he could not see beyond the stage lights, he knew that in numerous locations spread throughout the arena there were women of all ages, body shapes, and ethnicities calling out to him. He managed to hear their proposals overtop of the male population, which made him smirk. His tongue darted quickly across his lips as he pondered the amount of groupies that would be waiting for him backstage._

_The din slowly subsided as anticipation clogged the air. Skwisgaar could feel them all holding their breath, and to be honest, he was too. It was not that he was worried - not at all. What did the fastest guitarist in the world need to be nervous about? He was holding his breath because he was trying to get his heart to slow down a little bit before his fingers took off in one of his signature solos. The adrenaline he'd received upon his band's front man introducing him to their fans had caused his hands to shake ever so slightly, and he couldn't risk it slowing him up. It was not as though the people standing before him would notice, but Skwisgaar's own ears _would_, and that was the only reason he needed._

_When Skwisgaar was satisfied with his heart rate, he melodramatically brought his hands into their positions on his guitar. The audience's cheers fluctuated again as he played his first note. He teased them with his solo's modest, nearly bluesy beginning, and smirked as he gauged their reaction. They lapped it up like an eager dog, and pleaded for more. Their longing was soon addressed as a gradual crescendo of notes brought him closer and closer to his full potential of speed. Even to his own ears, the notes began to blend together, and he could no longer look at his own hands without feeling dizzy. The stage lights swelled as the music's pitch did, and he was nearly blinded as the intermittent ringing assaulted both sides of his head-_

"Ugh, fuck ..."

_The chaos was lost to the ringing, and the crowd was swallowed up in the intense illumination. Damn technicians ... hadn't he specified how bright he wanted the lights to be-?_

His eyes snapped open, only to be immediately clenched shut again. He had forgotten to draw the blinds when he fell asleep the night before, and was now paying the price as the sunlight assaulted his retinas. He struggled as he tried to simultaneously pull the blanket over his head and discover the source of that incessant ringing. There it was again - oh, the phone.

A pale arm shot out from beneath the makeshift fort and began to feel the bedside tabletop, bouncing on the tips of Skwisgaar's fingers. Finally, he felt the phone brush his thumb, and so grabbed the handset from its cradle to bring it haphazardly to his ear. When he spoke, it was in a bare, careful whisper. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was vaguely familiar, but he could not place it. "Hello, is this the Skwigelf residence?"

Skwisgaar paused in confirming this. He wondered briefly if the person on the other end was a telemarketer, or a member of the media looking for his mother. However, the fact that he knew he'd heard that voice before kept him from lying to the man. It was more than likely one of his mother's former lovers, who had not quite gotten the hint that she did not wish to see them ever again. "Yes. May I ask who this is?"

"This is Tallak Erstad." This proclamation caused Skwisgaar's stomach to flip unexpectedly. "I'm calling for Skwisgaar. Is he home?"

Tallak. Only two words floated through Skwisgaar's mind, bouncing back and forth between his skull walls: Holy and Fuck. He hadn't spoken to Tallak since-

Skwisgaar flinched as his head was subjected to a painful throb. Even though it had been just over two years since Arvid's mysterious death, it still managed to send him into shivers and make him want to wash his feet. The sight of Arvid's blood creeping out through the crack beneath his bedroom door to greet his toes remained vivid in his mind to this day. He wondered from time to time if he would ever be truly rid of that image.

"Hello?"

Skwisgaar was prompted by Tallak's voice, and he hurriedly tried to forget the most recurring of his nightmares. The dream he'd just been brought out of was rather pleasing to his mind's eye, and heavily resembled his daytime reveries. It was a nice change of pace. "Speaking."

"Oh, hi, Skwisgaar!" Tallak's voice grew less formal as he realized that he was not talking to a father or older brother - of which he speculated Skwisgaar as actually having. "Uh ... did I wake you?"

"It's okay," he replied. Though, he _would_ have liked to remain within that particular dream ...

"Oh, good," Tallak sounded relieved at that. He paused for a moment before drawing a long breath. "Listen, Skwisgaar, I'm not going to pussyfoot around this. Egil and I have been talking a lot lately about possibly getting the band back together-"

"What?" Skwisgaar cut the drummer off as a thought occurred to him. "But, how's that even possible, with Arvid gone?"

This was met by silence, in which Skwisgaar damned his unintentional insensitivity. The idea of Arvid's death may mean next to nothing for him, but he knew that Arvid and Tallak had been friends from quite early on in their lives. Then, as he realized fully what he had just said, he cringed at his own stupidity. Of course, if they got the band back together, Arvid wouldn't be a part of it. Duh.

Addressing this fact, Tallak continued. "We've got a new vocalist lined up. What do you think?"

Tallak's voice wasn't as warm as it had been when Skwisgaar first picked up the phone, and he caught a note of impatience. Skwisgaar emitted a small noise of consideration to show the drummer that he was actually going to think about it, instead of automatically turning him down, hanging up the phone, and going back to sleep for a few more precious hours.

Out of every band that he'd been in (he'd lost count some time ago), Gognogmug was the one that stuck out most in his mind. The reason for this was not what he would have liked it to be. He would have preferred much more to remember the music they had played, not the fact that the vocalist had died mysteriously in the night. At least he hadn't _seen_ the strewn guts and spattered blood before passing out in shock-

He forced himself to stop thinking about it again, and felt a twinge of anger towards Tallak. If the drummer hadn't phoned him, he would have been able to maintain his longest bout of ignorance to date. It was getting easier and easier as time went on to not think about what had occurred on his fourteenth birthday, and Tallak just _had_ to call and remind him.

"I don't know," he finally concluded.

He sensed the droop to Tallak's shoulders. "Why not?"

Skwisgaar threw the comforter off himself before sitting up in his bed and running a hand through his hair. "Well, the timing's pretty shitty, you know? I just started with Al Il El a few days ago, and - actually," he paused as a thought came to him. "I've only had one practice with them, so far. I guess I could check out what you've got going on up there before I commit-"

"That sounds fair," Tallak agreed. "When will you come up, then? Are you busy today?"

Skwisgaar thought about it. He hadn't made plans with the other members of Al Il El, the school year was winding down, and it was a Saturday. So, no, he wasn't busy. "Nej, I could come."

"Awesome," Tallak breathed. "We'll see you in a while."

This was followed by a click, and so Skwisgaar hung up the phone. He allowed for the yawn he had been suppressing throughout the entire conversation to emerge, and then stepped off his bed. He immediately stumbled, though, as something jabbed the bottom of his foot. He released a string of the most explicit swear words he knew as he hobbled over towards his dresser to lean upon it and investigate the damage. There was no sign of blood, or a puncture wound. He scowled in annoyance, and then looked to see what the culprit was. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel fond of Mercyful Fate's _Don't Break The Oath_ album.

When the throbbing had stopped, Skwisgaar took to weeding through the clothing on his floor in search for something that he could possibly wear. Due to their lack thereof, it was not long before he found the faded blue jeans he'd worn the day before, and his favorite long-sleeved shirt. As he moved back towards his sock drawer, he looked into what had become of the Mercyful Fate CD case. Just as he thought it would be, it was cracked right down the center. He sniffed with discontent, and decided that maybe it was time to invest in some jewel cases. _Don't Break The Oath_ wasn't the first album to meet this fate, and he _had_ been putting it off for some time, already.

A month ago, this would have been a conundrum involving tapping his Guitar Fund, but there was now nothing left in there to spend. He had finally got a good amount saved up, and made the necessary trip into Oslo to make his purchase. He eyed the case sitting in the corner of his room with a fond smile. His new guitar was definitely his pride and joy, and he hadn't let it from his sight since he brought it home.

His smile fell as the blatant thought that he had no money hit him. He'd had a reasonable amount since he was ten years old, and the idea that he had used his Fund for its original purpose was still a new one. If he could not afford a bus ticket, then how would he get up to Lillehammer?

He thought about it for a moment, and then left his bedroom. His mother was always traveling around, visiting all the bars and clubs within a five-hundred mile radius of their home, and he knew for sure that he'd heard her come in last night. He wondered if she would protest in driving him. As he moved up the hallway, he strained his ears for any sort of sound coming from her room. He hated it just as much as she did when he interrupted her and her numerous guests, and tried to avoid it as often as he could.

After hesitating for a few seconds, he lightly brought his knuckles into contact with her door. "Mom, are you awake?"

He listened carefully. There was a shifting in the bed, a groan, and then a man's voice. "Fuck off, kid. She's still out."

Skwisgaar's fist clenched at his side. Someone was telling him to get lost in his own home?

Instead of pursuing it, though, he made his way back to his room. That wouldn't mark the first time that one of his mother's dates - if you could call them that - had spoken to him in such a rude manner. On second thought, it was preferred that they were disrespectful towards him. He would never forget the time that one of his mother's faceless men came and struck up a conversation with him while he tried to eat his breakfast one morning. That hadn't been weird, or anything.

He knew that he shouldn't have even bothered to ask his mother for a ride. Chances were that she would have a killer hangover, and would not take lightly to leaving the house as early as ten o'clock. But Skwisgaar was slowly running out of ideas. He had no money for the bus, and he could not get a ride. What else was there?

He could always hitchhike, but that came with risks. It wasn't so much that he was worried about being kidnapped. He had grown to be quite tall, and figured that a potential abductor might think twice about trying anything with him. He just didn't trust someone to not steal his guitar.

Skwisgaar paced slightly as he considered any other possible routes of action. He _could_ take his mother's vehicle, but that would more than likely end with him being carted back to town in the back of a police car. He didn't have his license, and he was pretty sure that driving around without one was illegal.

He plopped moodily down onto his bed, and made to grab both his address book and phone. He kept track of band members' phone numbers in case he ever needed to get hold of them. By this, he still had the numbers of everyone that he'd ever played with. He thought for a moment that, with this book, he could probably figure out how many bands he'd ever been in, but he dismissed the idea as soon as it arrived. He neither had the time, nor did he really care, to count them all up.

As he began to flip through the pages, he struggled to remember Tallak's last name. It made him frown a little bit, because he was sure that he had stated it on the phone. Could he blame his short-term memory loss on barely being awake for the duration of the phone call? Whether yes or no, he was going to, anyway.

When he came to the E's, he remembered. Erstad. Sure enough, as he skimmed down the page, there was Tallak's phone number. Without taking his eyes off the ten digits, he grabbed the phone off his bedside table. He punched the numbers in, and then commenced to wait.

Two rings later, "Hello?"

"Hi, Tallak?"

"Skwisgaar?"

"Ja, it's me," he confirmed. "Listen, I don't think I'll be able to make it up there today. I can't find a ride, and I don't have money for the bus-"

"Oh, no worries," Tallak cut him off with his cheerful voice. "I can come get you, if you want. Would that work?"

Skwisgaar opened his mouth to reply, but was stunted when he heard a low moan from the other room. His mother was awake now, apparently. "Ja, it will. Listen, I'll meet you along the way, all right? I'm going to start walking."

There was a small pause as Tallak processed this strange statement, but did not press it. "Sounds good. Eda, right?"

"Ja."

"See you in a while."

Click.

After returning the phone and his address book to their rightful places, Skwisgaar flew into action. He finally pulled his socks on, followed by his boots. This was now a struggle, since Skwisgaar's feet had grown a few sizes since he bought them early last winter. He resolved that when he had enough money saved up again, he would buy a new pair just like these ones. He liked how they looked, and they were durable. Comfortable, too. No matter the weather or the heat onstage, he never exchanged them for something else. He just hoped that the store where he'd bought them in Oslo was still carrying them.

Another moan from the neighboring room pushed him to rush. He pulled a light jacket on, and then collected his guitar from its corner. He stared straight ahead as he walked down the hallway past his mother's bedroom door, and blocked out the sounds coming from within. He emptied his bladder as quickly as he could in the bathroom, and hurriedly grabbed the remnants of the measly supper he'd cooked for himself the night before from the kitchen.

The cool, morning breeze greeted him as he finally stepped out into the day. He tried not to think about what was transpiring back at his home, but could not help himself. Every time that he heard it happening, the same six words would emerge in his mind: _Oh, how the mighty have fallen._ He was not a fan of the Bible, but he had picked up the quotation during one of the few religious studies his grandfather forced him to attend before he died. Though it was years ago, it stuck. He attributed it to his mother, since it fit her like a glove ... or a sexual object.

When he saw pictures of Serveta at his age, he did not recognize her. He was accustomed to her now tired, wrinkled, and unhealthily ashen face. He was used to her saggy breasts, her soft stomach, and broad hips. He was used to the extinguished shells that were her eyes, and the defeated manner in which she carried herself. He remembered asking, once, if the girl in the pictures was her sister, or maybe a cousin. He would never forget the empty tone she used while explaining that it was _her_, right before she'd entered the Miss Sweden pageant.

He had known that his mother was once pretty, since she had won the competition, but he had a hard time in thinking of the two women as the same person. It was not so much that his mother looked _younger_ in the pictures, but that she looked _happy_. He remembered studying one picture, consisting of her and his grandparents. She was laughing, and her arms were thrown carelessly around her mother and father's shoulders. There was life in her, and confidence. _That_ was what threw Skwisgaar off. It was also what made him stare at it for so long.

He would never forget looking up from the picture, and into the face of his mother. He had searched her eyes for her former self, but he could not find even the merest shadow of it. She was breathing, yes, but she was dead. She was gone. As he came to this realization, so did she, and it marked the first of two times in his life that he ever saw his mother cry.

Skwisgaar did not know if this event had set her off in her search for validation, but it definitely marked a new beginning. She began to bring a vast array of men home, and stayed out until the wee hours of the morning - all because he had chanced a glance at that photo album. She'd had boyfriends before, a few of which he even liked. But now ... no one stayed longer than the night.

As far as Skwisgaar could tell, the long-term relationships had only been temporary. There had to be multiple partners in the past, because she was unable to tell Skwisgaar anything about his father. He had only asked her once for his identity, and did not have it in him to do it again. The blank stare that came over her after he'd voiced his question had been awful to witness, as had been the way that she seemed to age ten years when she told him she didn't know who it was.

Skwisgaar shoved his hands roughly into the pockets of his jeans. He had burned that album, not long after. He could recall perfectly how the flames from their fireplace licked the pages and the portraits taped to them. He remembered how that picture of his mother and grandparents slowly blackened, and then receded into nothing. He remembered when his mother walked in on his self-appointed mission, and pushed him aside as she tried to salvage the remnants of her past life. He remembered how she burned her fingers in attempt to snatch them from their demise, and how she cried for hours over the ashes after sending him to his room.

As he sat against his bedroom door that night, listening to her, Skwisgaar had promised that he would never do to himself what _she_ had done. And now, four years later, he cursed himself. He usually prided himself on his ability to keep promises, but this one had turned out to be an exception.

It didn't matter if he thought that sex was dirty, or humiliating. He could not control himself. He had thought after the first time that he'd be able to, but he soon found out that he couldn't. He had learned in special classes at his school that this sentiment was normal with teenaged boys, but he still suspected that his mother had somehow influenced his behavior. He didn't care what the health nurse had said about the human libido and puberty. _She_ didn't know about his mother.

The lady had talked a bit about diseases too, and the protection that should be taken against them. Was being fucked up inside the head somehow contagious, or genetic? If so, he'd caught his mother's illness.

And he hated her for it. He had only ever wanted for her to be happy, and look at the shitty deal he got in return.

The hands inside his pockets twitched, and Skwisgaar sighed. Whenever he grew troubled about his home life, he would take out his guitar. A few hours of playing, whether actually plugged in or not, tended to calm him down. Because of this, he was starting to look forward to going up to Lillehammer. Anywhere was better than sitting in his room and listening to his mother's headboard banging repeatedly against the wall separating them.

Skwisgaar emerged from his contemplation long enough to get a bearing on his surroundings. He was now out of the town, and when he glanced back, it was barely visible in the distance. He blinked. Had he really been that preoccupied with his thoughts? And what happened to his food? He wasn't hungry anymore ... had he eaten it without realizing?

As he made to continue on, he discovered what had caused his sudden awareness. On the other side of the road sat a dark blue van, idling and waiting. The driver window was rolled down, and the man within casually leaned out. For the first time, Skwisgaar realized that he had been calling out to him.

"Are you coming, or are you going to walk the whole way there?" Tallak smiled warmly with a small wave. "Let's get going. I told Egil and Ingmar that I would be as quick as possible in getting you."

Skwisgaar nodded clumsily, and waited for a reasonable gap in the traffic before hazarding running across two lanes. He could feel Tallak's critical gaze on him as he finally dashed across the highway, skirted the front of the vehicle, and then climbed into the front seat.

Tallak raised an eyebrow at Skwisgaar as he opted to wedge his guitar case between his legs, as opposed to placing it in the rear. "There's room back there, you know."

Skwisgaar shrugged. "It's new."

"And?"

He failed to answer.

"Okay, then," Tallak dismissed Skwisgaar's behavior as something that had developed during the time they'd spent apart. He didn't know that the guitar was a physical representation of every coin and banknote that the kid had. If he did, he would understand. Skwisgaar wasn't going to tell him that, though, so unless he deduced it for himself, he would remain in the dark.

"So, are you excited?" Tallak broke the silence between them with placid conversation. He turned the stereo down a little bit, so that it would be easier to hear the quiet Swede.

Skwisgaar gave a low energy, one-shoulder shrug. "Apprehensive, maybe, after what happened before." The sporadic curiosity that he'd felt since Arvid's death resurfaced, and he voiced the question he'd been dying to ask for so long. "Did they ever find out what happened?"

Tallak grew immediately uncomfortable, and roughly stroked his chin. In the time that he took to answer, Skwisgaar noticed that the drummer had finally managed in growing a rather impressive beard.

"Ja, they did," he finally said with a long sigh. It was apparent to Skwisgaar that Tallak was unsatisfied with the outcome of the investigation. "We pressed the police to look into the Wartooths, but we couldn't build a case against them. I mean, I've pretty much accepted that it was - as it was. The Wartooths couldn't have possibly done anything to him. He _did_ start acting weird after we met them, though ..."

Skwisgaar was confused. "'The Wartooths'?"

"You know, the reverend and his family," Tallak informed him.

The guitarist's eyes widened. He'd never even _considered_ that weird family as being responsible for Arvid's death. But, how _could_ it be possible? Had that woman maybe snuck into his room in the dead of night, in order to do away with him? Wasn't that a bit of an exaggerated punishment for what Arvid had done? He'd only taunted her son lightly, and Skwisgaar spoke from experience. Arvid could have done much worse.

"There wasn't anything to support your argument?"

Tallak shook his head. "The Wartooths had been well on their way home when - it happened. Everyone that the police talked to saw them leaving town and, besides, with how fast Egil and I broke down Arvid's door after, they wouldn't have been able to climb out his window, or anything. They're pretty frail, and old.

"They wrote it off as a suicide," Tallak mumbled miserably under his breath. "He was holding the knife that slit his throat. They found his own skin under his fingernails."

Skwisgaar stared blankly out the window. From what he remembered, it hadn't sounded much like a suicide. But, the only person who was present in Arvid's room at the time was Arvid, and a suicide was, technically, the act of killing one's self. "I see."

The topic was dropped. Skwisgaar turned his attention towards the stereo, and tapped his fingers against his guitar case in time with the music. He did not recognize the song, but he knew that he was listening to power metal. The style sounded familiar to him. He wondered if he had another album by the same band in his collection.

_'Masquerade! Masquerade! Grab your mask and don't be late-!'_

"Do you like it?"

Skwisgaar looked over at Tallak. "Hm?"

Tallak nodded towards the stereo. "The music."

The guitarist listened to it for another moment. "Ja, it's pretty good."

"I just bought the CD yesterday, and spent the morning putting it onto a tape," Tallak spoke conversationally. "Just came out a week ago. Have you heard of Helloween?"

Skwisgaar's eyes narrowed slightly. _Had he heard of-?_ Of _course_ he'd heard of Helloween! They were a metal band, weren't they? "_Pfft_, ja, I've heard of them before. I have _Walls of Jericho_ back home. I meant to buy their new album when it came out. I didn't realize that this was it."

"It's definitely worth the listen," Tallak told him, and then eyed up his guitar. "I take it you blew all your money on this new guitar of yours? What is it, anyways?"

"A Gibson." A proud smile came over the younger boy's face, lighting it up. "A Flying V."

Tallak let out a low whistle. "Nice. That must have cost a pretty penny. Is it brand new?"

Skwisgaar nodded. "I've had it about three weeks, now."

"I'm not even going to ask you where you got the money for something like that."

"I've been saving up," Skwisgaar shrugged, and looked over at the drummer with annoyance. "I didn't do anything illegal, or anything, if that's what you're implying."

Tallak's old, sly smile emerged, and Skwisgaar knew that something aggravating and quite possibly disreputable was about to escape his mouth. "No sucking guys off in an alleyway? You could nearly pass as a-"

"I'M NOT A LADY, AND I DIDN'T SUCK ANYONE OFF!" Skwisgaar bellowed before scowling, sinking down in his seat, and staring straight ahead at the road.

A stunned silence followed, but Skwisgaar didn't care if his outburst seemed immature or suspicious. He had to withstand those sorts of statements enough as it was at school, and he would not hear any of it from the man sitting next to him. Besides, _him_, getting _guys_ off for _money_? Tallak was obviously unaware of how many girls Skwisgaar had already slept with. The _girls_ didn't mind that he had a more feminine appearance to him. _They_ thought he was attractive, and to him, that was all that counted.

It wasn't until the song they were listening to ended seven minutes later that Tallak spoke. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."

Skwisgaar glared at him before returning to his sulking. Yes, it _was_ out of line. Tallak was supposed to be sucking up, trying to get him to make a concrete decision about rejoining Gognogmug, not ridiculing him on something that couldn't be helped. "So, who's this singer of yours?"

When Tallak spoke, he sounded relieved at the change of subject. "Name's Ingmar. He's a friend of my sister's brother-in-law. He's a bit of a dick, but he's got a good voice."

"What's his style?"

Tallak made a sound of contemplation. "Something kind of along the lines of Ozzy, maybe more so Sean Harris. Sometimes he gets this Dave Mustaine thing going on, too."

Skwisgaar contemplated this. It sounded fine by him, but he didn't like that Tallak referred to him as a dick. Tallak had actually _liked_ Arvid for the majority of the time, and the concept that he was being asked to work with someone _worse_ than him was not a very good one.

"Oh, also," Tallak piped up suddenly as he remembered another bit of business. "Egil and I thought that it would be in our best interest to rename the band, but we couldn't come up with anything. Do you have any ideas?"

Thank Odin for that. When Arvid had pulled Gognogmug out of his ass after a particularly severe drug and booze bender, it became the stupidest band name that Skwisgaar ever heard. One that was equally as insipid jumped into his head, and he chuckled before speaking it aloud. "What about Allugdug?"

To him, the sarcasm in his voice was more than apparent. However, Skwisgaar had begun to suspect from the absentminded way that Tallak described Ingmar's vocal style that the percussionist was a little ... burned out.

"Allugdug," the drummer repeated thoughtfully, trying it out on his own tongue. "I like it."

Skwisgaar snorted quietly, and so was not heard overtop of the stereo music. He crossed his arms, and then rearranged himself in his seat to get more comfortable. It seemed that any form of verbal exchange between he and Tallak was over. Skwisgaar turned his attention back to Helloween's new album, which provided first-rate background noise as he watched the passing landscape. There were brief seconds where the entire vehicle was silent, in which Tallak took it upon himself to turn the tape over and start it playing on the other side. Skwisgaar was beginning to grow familiar with the songs, and was just deciding upon a couple solos that he'd like to learn when they reached Ringsaker, the town half an hour south of Lillehammer.

A pit began to develop in Skwisgaar's lower abdomen. It took him a few minutes to discern the sensation, but he managed to pinpoint it: he was nervous. That surprised him, because he wasn't entirely sure what there was to dread. He had gone through enough bands to no longer worry about what potential band mates thought of him. He never tried out for bands, anyway - not anymore. He was usually just asked to join by someone who had seen one of his numerous performances.

Although, he supposed that the circumstances _were_ different. He had blatantly avoided Lillehammer after his abrupt departure from Gognogmug, and the idea of coming back did not sit well with him. Putting himself back into the same situation he'd been in two years ago wasn't the best choice he ever made, and he caught himself wishing that he'd thought of that before he agreed to come.

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow at his thoughts. Since when had _he_ ever been superstitious? Though his last time in Lillehammer had been strange, that did not mean that anything was going to happen to him, or the others. If Arvid had been the victim of supernatural intervention, then why only _him_? If that Wartooth woman wanted to exact revenge upon them for bothering her son, then she wouldn't have limited her wrath to the vocalist. She saw the other three there, and as far as she could have known, they were just as guilty as Arvid in what he'd done.

That particular notion was a comforting one, and it helped to slightly alleviate his fears. He was safe. He had been then, and he was now. Nothing bad was going to become of him. He had just happened to be present at the scene of a brutal suicide. For all he knew - actually, he suspected - Arvid had overdosed on hallucinogenic drugs. He knew that the vocalist had done acid in the past, and he'd learned in school that anyone who'd taken it sometimes experienced flashbacks long afterwards. Maybe he freaked out?

Skwisgaar became distracted again when the first few residences came into sight. As they moved into Lillehammer's town limits, Tallak adjusted his speed accordingly. Since Tallak lived in the southern section, it was not long before they had left the main highway, and were traveling instead through smaller, quiet streets. Skwisgaar tried to guess which house belonged to Tallak, but it was impossible to tell until the drummer actually pointed it out. Like the other buildings in Lillehammer, Tallak's home was comprised of wood, and the chimney smoke curling away into the sky completed the image of general pleasantry. Skwisgaar had never been here before. When he'd played in Gognogmug, the band spent their time, however brief, at Arvid's house.

"They're waiting for us inside," Tallak stated as he cut the engine. "Egil's looking forward to seeing you again, and Ingmar is anxious to meet you."

Skwisgaar grabbed his guitar, and followed Tallak up the path and into the house. From the basement, he could hear the dull thud of music, and below it, the sound of casual voices. Tallak took Skwisgaar to their immediate right, through a door. As they descended the stairs, Tallak announced their arrival. "We're here!"

The voices ceased immediately, and were soon followed by the music. When Skwisgaar had traveled down far enough to be able to actually see what consisted of the basement, his eyes went immediately to the two men that occupied it. He recognized Egil right away, even though he had definitely changed. His hair was much longer now, and he had become fond of facial piercings at some point. The other one, Ingmar ... he wasn't sure if he'd met before. He'd met a lot of people at metal shows, but their faces were a blur.

However, judging by the condescending expression upon the vocalist's face, their paths _hadn't_ ever crossed. Ingmar stood from his sprawled position on the couch and approached Tallak and Skwisgaar, eyeing him intently. "Hm. When Tallak said you were Swedish, he wasn't joking."

Unimpressed, Skwisgaar crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow at Ingmar. He wasn't about to argue with the shorter man, though. He was already painfully aware of the fact that he was a stereotypical Swede. He had the blue eyes and wavy blonde hair normally associated with the people of his nation, and was now so tall that his head nearly brushed the roof. Of course, these were traits also attributed to the _women_, and Skwisgaar's pleasant facial features did nothing to redeem him from femininity. He had a long nose, pronounced cheekbones, and full lips that he usually managed well in hiding. Though he was tall, he was slim. One of the very few features that established he was a man was that he was not at all curvy. His deep voice normally corrected anyone who took him to be a woman, as well.

"Uh ..." Tallak broke the dense silence that occurred after Ingmar's statement. "Skwisgaar, this is Ingmar. Ingmar, Skwisgaar."

Ingmar retreated away from where Skwisgaar and Tallak stood, and returned to where he'd been sitting before. "All right, then. Let's see what you can do."

Skwisgaar stared at him. His one eye began to twitch, and a boiling anger rose from within. He spoke with a dangerous tone, "See what I can-?"

"Oh boy," Tallak mumbled uncomfortably as Skwisgaar turned towards him. "Skwisgaar, listen-"

"You dragged me all the way to Lillehammer so that I could _audition_?" The Swede hissed treacherously. "When you _knew_ that I was already in a band? When you _know_ how well I can play?"

"He's _in_ a band, Tallak?" Ingmar cut in with a sharp voice. "Why would we try him out when he's not even available?"

Tallak glared at him. "Ingmar-"

"Ja, you stay out of this," Skwisgaar spoke for both of them. "Well, what's all this about, Tallak? I'm listening." He commenced to glare down over his nose at the percussionist.

Tallak awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck as his mind raced to compile a satisfactory explanation. "Well, when Egil, Ingmar, and I decided to put together a band, Ingmar knew a couple guitarists, too. Don't get me wrong, Skwisgaar, you were our first choice, but we, uh, decided to try those guys out first-"

Though his ego appreciated the first half of Tallak's sentence, it _detested_ the second part. "Oh, so you thought, nej, we'll just see if we can't find someone better, and then we'll ask Skwisgaar if he'll consider-"

"Nei, nei, nei," Tallak hurriedly told him, glancing over at Egil and Ingmar for help. "You _were_ Egil and I's first choice - you really were, in all sincerity! It's just that, uh ..."

He trailed off, but Skwisgaar understood what that pointed look meant when he looked at Ingmar. So, relieving the drummer from his flaring temper, Skwisgaar turned his attention towards the calm man sitting on the couch. "You don't think I'm any good, and yet you've never seen or heard me play."

"Only half a mark out of two, Skwisgaar," Ingmar boredly replied. "Nei, I've never heard you play. Because of this, I don't _know_ if - not _think_ that - you're any good. _These_ two-" he nodded at Egil and Tallak respectively, "-Were adamant about you coming onboard right away. I wasn't about to accept it without seeing you play, now, was I? So, I told them, I'll compromise. We'll try out all potential guitarists, and if Skwisgaar turns out to be the best we can find, I'm all for it. So, are you going to try out, or not?"

There were those words again: _try out_. Though what Ingmar said made complete logical sense to Skwisgaar, the fact that he was being forced to audition made his blood boil. Try out? _Pfft._ Skwisgaar Skwigelf did _not_ try out! If Ingmar had never seen one of his shows before, then that brought into question just what shows the man _was_ attending, if any. That particular notion bothered the Swede. Not only was this dildo rude and annoying, he was quite possibly fairly neutral in his love for all that was metal. Ingmar's physical appearance helped to reinforce this fact; he had a small amount of eyeliner left underneath, from the night before. What if Ingmar liked to dress up like a lady every night, like those dildos in Los Angeles? Skwisgaar _refused_ to associate himself with such an act, and so his final decision was made.

"Nej," he resolutely told them all. "Fuck you, I'm leaving."

"_Skwisgaar_-" Tallak reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

The Swede just shrugged him off. "Don't touch me."

Tallak withdrew his hand as though he had been burned, and watched as Skwisgaar huffily climbed the stairs leading back up to his kitchen. The entire house shook when he slammed the front door behind him.

Skwisgaar muttered mutinously under his breath as he began on his way down the street towards the town's center. What a waste of a day _this_ had been. To think, he could be practicing with Thorsten and Dag, or else playing his guitar in his room with the stereo turned up loud enough to drown out the noises coming from next door.

His irate thoughts carried him further and further away from Tallak's, and he was very glad to discover that none of them tried to follow. If they had, he feared that he might bring out his guitar and sacrifice it to the good cause of hitting them upside the head with it. He continued to consider all that he would have been doing if he weren't wandering aimlessly through Lillehammer. He'd probably have phoned up Thorsten to see if Al Il El was going to have a practice, because he sure as hell wouldn't have stayed at home. Not when his mother was entertaining guests-

Skwisgaar's breath hitched in his throat as a realization hit him. The thought of his mother had dragged his morning's problem along with it. He didn't have any money, and he didn't have a ride - well, if one chose not to count Tallak, which Skwisgaar certainly was _not_. Anger aside, the fact was that Skwisgaar did not have any way of returning to Eda, and he certainly wasn't going to go back and ask Tallak to drive him. The mental picture of him down on his knees begging for one made sure of that, as did the idea that the drummer might ask for his cooperation about being in - correction, _trying out for_ - the band in return.

No, he was a resourceful kid. Therefore, he was going to find his own way home without having to call upon those insufferable dildos. Perhaps he would just head towards the bus station, and see what could be done. If he had to screw some stupid ticket jockey lady, so be it. It wasn't like he'd never done anything like that in the past.

After asking a stranger to point him in the right direction, Skwisgaar was on his way. Already, various methods he'd used before in picking up and seducing women were running through his mind. He wondered which one would work the best and the fastest, but then decided that he needed to wait and see what kind of a woman he was dealing with, first.

Lillehammer was at least three times the size of Eda, and so Skwisgaar had a hard time in maintaining his designated route. Everyone else seemed to know exactly where they were going, and they were not against pushing him aside in order to get there. Crossing the streets was a trickier deal, and a car horn was directed at him at least once or twice. Every time Skwisgaar looked up at a street sign, he found himself to have deviated from where he should have been going. Though the people were pushy, they were kind; they had no qualms about redirecting Skwisgaar, some going as far as telling him what, exactly, he did wrong to fall off course.

The time finally came when Skwisgaar could no longer disregard his aching feet. He managed to ignore them for thirty minutes or so, believing that, at any moment, he would finally find the bus station. There came a point, though, where he could no longer walk on without resting first. He sat himself down on a bench, clutching his guitar protectively as he slid down into a position of comfort.

As he relaxed, he finally opened himself to the chaos that surrounded him. The majority of those that walked by were in conversations of their own. Somewhere to his left, a baby was crying. On his right, a small child threw a fit over a candy. Numerous bells rang as customers went in and out of the shops. The roaring of engines undermined the sounds of the streets, and further up the road someone was-

Skwisgaar sat up straighter, the pain in his feet momentarily forgotten. He looked in the direction of the sound, but saw nothing. There were too many people in the way. But, he knew what he was hearing, and he was not going to sit there when he could be pinpointing the source.

Someone was playing the guitar, and he was curious as to who. Maybe it was one of those other dildos that Ingmar wanted in the band. The thought made him sneer, but did not deter him. It was hard to tell, just by the sound. He knew that whoever played did so with a grandpa guitar, but he didn't put it past Ingmar to want someone with such an embarrassing instrument to play with him.

He took his guitar up again, and began in the direction of the music. A small bubble of excitement formed inside him when he realized the riff being played. _Hallowed Be Thy Name_ ... maybe whoever it was wasn't so much of a dildo, after all. It was pretty good playing, for being done on a substandard instrument.

The music grew louder as he moved, so he was definitely getting closer. After fighting his way upstream through the hoards of people, he began to catch flashes of his goal through the gaps in the crowd. Shoulder-length, brown hair. A blue tee shirt. Small hands moving over the frets. As he approached the person from behind, he realized just how small they were. He realized that, even though they _were_ playing an easily recognizable song, they did so somewhat clumsily and awkwardly.

He also realized that people were dropping coins into his guitar case as they passed.

Skwisgaar's mind set into motion, and a series of logical thought brought him to a conclusion. Whoever this kid was, he was earning money. Skwisgaar was a better guitar player than them; no contest. If Skwisgaar played a little guitar on the street, he could make _more_ money than the kid, and then could easily pay his way home.

With his mind made up, Skwisgaar turned on his heel and began to move in the other direction. He did not want to sit near the _other_ guitarist, just in case the competition caused him less income. He knew that the people walking past wouldn't want to drop coins into _his_ case, if they'd already given some away to someone else.

He hardly made it five strides when he faltered. How the hell was he going to play his Flying V without an amp, and without electricity, at that? He swore loudly inside his head, and began to chew his bottom lip as he started to rethink his plan. It was still possible, though, playing on the street for money. It was not a difficult concept. All he needed was a guitar that didn't require electricity - one that a grandpa might play.

_Oh, when the mighty fall, they fall hard._

Skwisgaar glanced contemplatively back over his shoulder. His head _ached_ at the idea of possibly using or borrowing such a humiliating instrument when he had a Flying V at his disposal. However, he accepted that his prized possession would be of no use to him in this situation, and that if he wanted to get home without having to call and interrupt his mother, he would swallow his pride. That was not an easy feat, and so he didn't do it very often. It was a very large and dry pill that required a great amount of coaxing.

Before he could retract his train of thought, Skwisgaar turned back around half-heartedly. He stared at the boy, mentally building himself up and contemplating what it was exactly that he would say. The longer he stood there, though, the more he felt a sense of déjà vu. That kid's size, and his guitar - _no_ ... _was_ it?

His stomach lurched in sudden fear as that idea gripped him. The more he pondered it, the more he accepted it. This wasn't just some random kid looking to make an easy krone - this was that _Wartooth_ kid, whose mother may or may not have been responsible for Arvid's death.

Well, _that_ certainly changed things. Was he willing to approach him, and ask to borrow his guitar for a short while? Was he willing to put himself at risk? _Was_ there a risk? Did he really even have a choice?

Yes, he had a choice. But, then again, he _was_ being a bit stupid about this. Why was he judging this kid by what his mother might have done? Well, if Arvid had left the kid alone, he wouldn't have died. Right?

That was a hard call to make, and not one that should be done lightly. He continued to observe the Wartooth kid, and shifted his weight in accordance with his thoughts. Arvid merely had an acid flashback. Left leg. The reverend's wife somehow set it off. Right leg. He needed money to get home. Left. Playing on a grandpa's guitar was a hefty price to pay for monetary gain. Right. How dangerous could a kid be if he was a fan of Iron Maiden? Left.

Skwisgaar had not considered how long he might have until the Wartooth kid became conscious of his presence. It happened when, between songs, the small Norwegian took a chance to peer into the guitar case beside him - and noticed the tall Swede in the corner of his eye. He momentarily paused, and then readjusted himself where he sat in order to take a better look. Skwisgaar's breathing slowed, and a flurry of nerves descended upon him. Yes, now that he saw his face, this was _definitely_ the same kid that had been sitting on those church steps two years ago. His pale blue eyes locked onto Skwisgaar's, and for a moment he worried that the young boy would recognize him. However, the glance remained quite quizzical in nature, and so that fear was laid to rest.

He tried to break eye contact, but no such luck. There was something about the owlish way in which the boy looked at him that stayed his feet, as well. Skwisgaar sighed resignedly, and decided to bite the bullet. Besides, this boy wasn't frightening - not at all! If anything, _he_ was the scary one. Judging by the way that the Norwegian's eyebrows furrowed, he agreed with that notion. His eyes grew wider as Skwisgaar approached, and he craned his neck to look up at him.

"You play well." Skwisgaar had decided that pleasantries would be the best place to start. He literally had to bite back his tongue, though, as his pride reemerged its ugly head. _It_ dictated that he should declare his superior skills, and obviously did not see the importance behind Skwisgaar's kind words.

He waited for a response, but it didn't come in the form of reciprocated dialogue. The boy continued to stare, and merely blinked at the Swede.

Skwisgaar's eyes scanned the ground, and came to rest upon the guitar case. "Do you make good money doing this?"

Another blink.

Annoyance eclipsed Skwisgaar's anxiety about talking to the kid. He decided that he would make one more attempt at communication before walking away. "I need to make some quick cash so that I can buy a bus ticket home. The thing is, I have nothing to plug my guitar into. Would it be possible for me to borrow yours for a while?"

At the mention of Skwisgaar's guitar, the younger boy's eyes slowly shifted towards its case. He blinked again, and just when Skwisgaar was about to give up, he spoke. "What kind of a guitar do you have?"

Skwisgaar had a hard time catching the boy's words over the sounds of their surroundings. He was so quiet, and it didn't help that his voice was so small.

The Swede never missed an opportunity to showcase his pride and joy, but he restrained himself in this situation. Instead of answering the boy's question, he shoved his hands into his pocket and gave the kid a sly once-over. "How about this: I'll show you my guitar if you let me use yours until I have enough money to get home."

Skwisgaar's proposal brought the boy's attention away from his guitar case. "Ja, okay."

Smirking, Skwisgaar unslung his guitar from his shoulder, and then moved to take a seat next to the boy. Having settled on the surrounding edge of a flower garden, the position was quite awkward for the Swede. His long legs did not want to cooperate with him, and so he resorted to stretching them out before him and crossing them at the ankle. Beside him, the young Norwegian scooped the coins and banknotes that he'd procured that day into a small lockbox, so as to make room for the cash that would soon be coming Skwisgaar's way.

"Here, I'll show you," Skwisgaar said as he opened his guitar case. The Norwegian clasped his hands between his knees and leaned over slightly to get a better look. When light was shed upon the guitar, Skwisgaar looked up at the boy to gauge his reaction.

His eyes widened excitedly, and he emitted a small gasp. "A Flying V," he slowly whispered in wonderment.

Skwisgaar's pride was back, and it swelled without restraint inside his chest. "Ja."

"Can I hold it?" the boy asked breathlessly, and then blushed slightly. "I mean, if it's all right with you? I've wanted a Flying V for forever, and, well ..."

He nudged his lockbox listlessly with his foot, and Skwisgaar understood that he wasn't the only one with a Guitar Fund. Though Skwisgaar was empathetic towards the Norwegian's situation, he was still slightly wary about allowing the young boy to _touch_, let alone _hold_, his guitar.

"Would you be careful with it?" Skwisgaar slowly questioned him.

The boy looked him dead in the eyes. "I wouldn't do _anything_ to break it, or even _scratch_ it."

Skwisgaar nearly chuckled at his sudden seriousness, but his preoccupation with his guitar's safety stifled it. Instead of handing it over, though, he nodded towards the forgotten grandpa guitar. "We'll trade."

"Oh!" the boy jerked suddenly, having momentarily forgotten why the tall Swede was there in the first place. "Right."

He was significantly careless with his own guitar, which worried Skwisgaar slightly. However, when he held the Flying V out to the young boy, he held and regarded the significant instrument as though it were made of glass. He rested it gently on his lap, and skimmed his small hands up and down its body. Skwisgaar watched him intensely, and was distracted enough to not feel embarrassed about playing with the grandpa guitar. He merely positioned the instrument on his lap, took up his pick, and began to mindlessly pluck away. Soon enough, a clattering sound announced his first small bit of capital.

"So, got a name?" Skwisgaar asked rather suddenly, bringing the boy out of his undivided awe and making him start.

"Oh! Ja," he gathered himself from his small scare. "Toki - my name's Toki."

"Toki Wartooth?"

Toki's eyes widened at Skwisgaar's automatic question. "How'd you know?"

Deciding that he'd rather not explain it, Skwisgaar just shrugged. "I like your name."

That was meant to distract Toki from further questions on the subject, but it was also only half true. His surname was cool-sounding enough, but he privately thought that the kid's first name was a tad bit ridiculous.

His statement did as it was supposed to, and Toki gave him a small smile. "What's _yours_?"

"Skwisgaar." The Swede kept it simple. He didn't want to overwhelm Toki with his full name.

Toki, apparently, didn't think along the same wavelength. "Skwisgaar what?"

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow at him. "Why does it matter?"

Toki shrugged his shoulders unabashedly. "You know _my_ last name."

Fine, whatever. "Skwisgaar Skwigelf." Then, seeing the slightly confused expression on Toki's face, laughed lightly and added, "It's a mouthful, I know."

The younger boy said nothing in agreement, but his small smile gave him away. He then turned his attention back towards Skwisgaar's Flying V, and fell silent again.

Skwisgaar's fingers went onto autopilot as he hawked over Toki. Though undoubtedly a nice kid, he still had only known him for a very short period of time. He trusted no one with his guitar, even to the point where he sometimes even doubted his _own_ touch. The longer he watched, though, the more faith he placed in Toki. The kid was definitely holding true to his words about not allowing any damage to occur to the Gibson. In fact, he seemed to exert the same kind of caution that Skwisgaar used while handling it.

The Flying V raptly held his attention, and so Skwisgaar did not realize Toki becoming squeamish and uncomfortable. It was not until the boy sheepishly looked up at him and spoke that he realized what his stare was doing. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Skwisgaar jerked as though an instructor had caught him in a daydream at school. He had been staring, yes, but not at Toki. "I wasn't looking at you. I was - well, my guitar is still new, you know? I've only had it for a few weeks, and it's - very special to me."

"Oh," Toki nodded in understanding. "I get it. You don't want anything to happen to it, but don't worry. I told you I would be careful."

Skwisgaar smiled appreciatively, and stopped picking long enough to briefly ruffle Toki's hair. "I know."

Toki beamed at the contact. Though he did so regrettably, he muttered, "If it makes you feel better, you could put it away."

His statement was enough to slow Skwisgaar's playing. He hadn't imagined that Toki would suggest it. In fact, he was starting to worry that he'd have to pry his Gibson out of the kid's hands. "Sure."

He put the grandpa's guitar aside for a few moments, in which he carefully placed his own guitar back into its case, secured it, and then laid it down beneath he and Toki's feet. His thighs rested atop it, and so if anyone tried to take it, he would definitely know. Before taking Toki's guitar up again, he examined his daily income so far. He seemed to be doing fairly well - a few people had definitely not been shy about leaving him larger bills. He did not know for sure how much a bus ticket cost, but he was going to be sure that he had enough.

With nothing to distract him anymore, Toki took to watching Skwisgaar play. It was now the Swede's turn to feel a little uncomfortable under the others' stare. He wished that the kid would just _blink_ every now and then. The sound of clattering coins continued, and Skwisgaar winked at a particularly attractive girl that left a twenty krone note with him before running off and giggling with her friends.

"You're really good," Toki complimented him sadly, and then looked away. "Better than me."

Skwisgaar's massive ego snatched the praise quite readily, but he _did_ feel slightly bad about how down Toki seemed about it. "I saw you playing earlier, and for your age, you're doing well enough. I've played for years, and I, uh, well, I guess you could say I'm a bit of a perfectionist about it, so ... it's a constant thing."

Toki blinked, waiting for him to continue. Skwisgaar didn't really know what else to say on the subject, and so decided to change it. He stopped playing, and eyed the money he'd just made. "I think this might do it."

Toki looked at it too, and took his guitar when Skwisgaar handed it over to him. He watched as the older boy commenced to collect his profit, shoving it into his jean pockets. When Skwisgaar was done, he picked his Gibson up from where it unceremoniously lay and nodded at Toki by means of farewell. "Thanks, kid."

Skwisgaar then dipped back into the crowd, continuing on along his original route. His spirits were considerably higher than they had been an hour ago. He had managed in forgetting about Tallak and that dildo Ingmar. Now that he thought about it again, though, he could feel his anger reemerging itself ...

"Hi," an overtly cheerful voice came from beside him.

"Oh, hi," Skwisgaar replied somewhat reluctantly. "You, uh, going to follow me home, are you?"

Toki laughed at Skwisgaar's question, even though it was meant to be serious. The Norwegian was flush in the face, and it was very obvious that he had run to catch up with the much taller boy. He walked quickly alongside Skwisgaar, trying his hardest to keep the pace. "Where do you live? Oslo? I've been there once. It was big."

"Nej, not Oslo," Skwisgaar snubbed his question with a rushed answer, and did not bother to elaborate.

"Oh, I see," Toki nodded. "Your accent is different."

Skwisgaar did not know if Toki was merely drawing attention to this fact, or if he were trying to make some sort of convoluted point. Either way, his statement seemed random, and did not really fit into their conversation. "Ja, I was born further north."

"And then you moved down here?"

_Obviously._ "Ja."

Toki fell quiet at his slightly sharper tone. Skwisgaar wondered if he'd finally caught on that the Swede didn't feel comfortable discussing his home life with the weird little kid walking so proudly beside him. Besides, their conversation was supposed to end once Skwisgaar had finished with Toki's guitar. Why was he still talking to him? Did he not understand the concept of boundary?

"I was wondering ..." Toki started off slowly, and it dawned on Skwisgaar that there _was_ an actual reason that the Norwegian had followed him. "Is there any chance that you could maybe teach me to play better?"

That was a loaded question, one of which Skwisgaar refused right away without subjecting it to much thought. "I don't think so, Toki."

He was visibly wounded by this rejection. "But, why not? I'll even pay you, or something. Look, we made lots of money today. If you teach me some things, then you could have _everything_ we make-"

"It's not a money issue," Skwisgaar raised a hand to quell the Norwegian's rambling speech. "The thing is, I don't really have a lot of free time on my hands, and I don't live in town, so transport is a problem." _Plus, you and your family still kind of scare the living shit out of me._ He wasn't going to mention that, though. When he saw that Toki was getting more and more upset as he talked, Skwisgaar added, "I _could_ give you a little advice, if it'd make you feel better."

"What kind of advice?" Toki eagerly asked, his upset attitude momentarily forgotten with the Swede's mild concession.

Skwisgaar thought about how best to word what he wanted to say. Since he had only ever attended two musical lessons in his life, both of which were grossly futile, he did not possess a vast vocabulary on the subject. Actually, perhaps that was for the better. It was more than likely that Toki had never gone to a single one, and would probably be lost if he were to begin spewing music jargon. "Just, uh ... well, practice a lot. From what I saw, you're getting it. Your fretting is a little sloppy, so maybe you should work on _that_, ja? Does playing come naturally to you?"

Toki hesitated in answering while he stored Skwisgaar's not-so-helpful words away into his memory. "You mean, can I play it without being taught?"

"Ja."

The Norwegian furrowed his eyebrows as he thought. "I taught myself, if that's what you mean. Ronk used to let me sit in his record store and listen to music. I just found the right notes on the guitar, and then played it." He shrugged.

"'Ronk'?"

Toki's features fell again. "He doesn't like me coming around that much, anymore. I think he's scared of my parents, or something. They aren't really scary, I don't think."

Skwisgaar cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. They were beginning to venture, once again, into topics that he really did _not_ want to talk about. "Ah."

The two boys came to a slow stop when a most welcoming sight appeared before them. Skwisgaar exhaled deeply as he quickened his pace towards the bus station. Finally - he could be on his way home, and could sulk all he wanted about how stupid this whole trip had been.

Toki was not as happy as Skwisgaar that they had finally reached the Swede's destination. "So, you're going home now? You live far away?"

"A little far," Skwisgaar replied distractedly.

The Norwegian came to a complete stop, which was, incidentally, in the midst of an intersection. "Are you never going to come back?"

"Toki, get out of the street," Skwisgaar urged him towards him with a wave of his hand. The younger boy inspected his surroundings, and then ran the rest of the way across the road. "Dear, sweet _Odin_, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

Toki hung his head. "Sorry."

Skwisgaar shrugged. It was not so much that he really cared about the small boy. He just didn't like the thought of what the kid's parents would do to him if their son were to be hit by a car while under his watch.

They continued on into the building. As Skwisgaar strode towards the place where he could buy his ticket, Toki reiterated his question. "Will you come back?"

Skwisgaar stopped short of the squat, bald man standing behind the counter. He wheeled around, hands on his hips, and scowled down upon the young Norwegian, who recoiled ever so slightly at his expression. "_In all honesty_, why do you _care_?"

Toki's shoulders slumped, and he immediately looked away. He clasped his left elbow before shrugging and slowly raising his wide, owlish eyes to Skwisgaar's narrowed ones. "I just - this is the first time that I've really ever palled around with anyone. No one here talks to me. They all think I'm weird."

Skwisgaar blinked as his body relaxed. No wonder the kid was so clingy - he had no friends, nor ever experienced any form of social activity outside his family. From what he knew about Toki's mother and father so far, it did not seem likely that this would amount to much. "You're not _that_ weird."

"No?" It was hopeful.

Skwisgaar smirked slightly before stepping forward to ruffle Toki's hair again. "Anyone who likes Iron Maiden isn't weird in _my_ books."

"So, we're friends?" Now, it was eager.

The Swede averted his gaze, and sighed inwardly. "Sure."

He looked back at Toki in time to see a huge grin split across his face. "And you'll come back to see me?"

_Damn_ it. He thought that this discussion was over! Skwisgaar pursed his lips and rubbed the back of his neck again. "Well, Toki, the only reason I came to Lillehammer was to check out an old band I was once in. The whole thing turned out to be dildos, so I'm just going to be staying with the one I'm in right now."

Toki's eyes grew wide in excitement. Skwisgaar could tell that his expressed letdown had gone in one ear and right out the other. "You're in a _band_?"

"Ja." Short and sweet got the job done.

"Could I ever see you play?"

He was breathless with his enthusiasm. Skwisgaar found it hard not to smile at this, and so gave Toki the best response he possibly could. "I'll see what I can do."

Toki beamed, and then took a step backwards. "Okay! Well ... bye!"

Skwisgaar watched as the kid sprinted his way out of the bus station, and shook his head in slight bafflement. Toki was definitely strange - a piece of work - but he was a pretty all right kid, overall. He was pretty sure that he would never actually see the boy again, and so tried to push him from his mind as he approached the counter and finally purchased a one-way ticket home.


	3. Two

**Two: The Walls Were White**

**Chapter Summary and Notes:**

**Two discussions bring about Skwisgaar's short-term and long-term plans.**

- I had to look into the Swedish education system for this particular chapter, so hopefully it all makes sense. Basically, attendance is mandatory for kids aged 7 - 16. During this period, they attend Primary school. Afterward, they have a choice of going straight into the work field or furthering their education with Secondary school. The grading goes as such: IG (fail), G (pass), VG (pass with distinction), and MVG (pass with special distinction). I couldn't find any information on how teachers are addressed in Sweden, so I just stuck with what they are in the West (to the extent of my knowledge). If these are wrong and you know better than me, could you please point it out? Thanks in advance.

- There's cocaine in this chapter, but no clowns. My sincerest apologies.

- I've been working on this chapter for a while, but I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. There's just something that I can't pinpoint that needs ... something ...

* * *

Skwisgaar was one of many students that did not care for school. He hadn't minded it earlier on, when he was younger, but now, he detested it. He had his reasons, like everyone else, but he was fairly alone in his.

He did not mind having to force himself out of bed at seven-thirty every morning, and then walk the three blocks distance to Eda's only public school. He didn't mind the classes, even though he scored quite averagely with mathematics and social sciences. In all actuality, he enjoyed school in the way that his fellow classmates hated it. He always appreciated a challenge, and his instructors were more than happy to offer him one. He enjoyed school because it was nearly surreal, the way that the clean hallways and spotless classrooms contrasted with his own filthy home. He enjoyed school because when he sat amongst the students in his class, he was a part of something else. He enjoyed school because it made him feel as though someone actually gave a shit about him and where he would end up after next year. He enjoyed school because the free lunches meant that on nights when there was no food in his cupboards, he didn't have to go to bed hungry.

The concept of education and all that it entailed did not bother Skwisgaar in the least. He never expressed these sentiments to anyone else, from fear of what they might think, or what they might discover about him. He did not share his thoughts with anyone else because, quite simply, there _was_ no one else. He didn't really think that band mates counted as friends, because he never stayed long enough to grow close to them. Besides, if he _did_ tell someone else why he disliked school, they would only think of him as strange, if they thought anything at all.

Skwisgaar hated school because the walls were white. Lackluster. Boring. Containing. He understood the chosen aesthetics; plain decoration was very popular in Sweden. It was a curse, to be an artist living in his country. How could he be inspired by his surroundings when they were so ... bland? Perhaps that was the intention behind the simple, colorless paint. _The students aren't _supposed_ to think outside the box. Instead, they should read and memorize the facts, the formulas, and the dates. Virtuosity is _not_ to be permitted._

When he first walked into Eda Primary at the age of seven, he actually liked the decoration. It was very pleasing to his young mind, and reminded him of home, when his mother's walls were still clean. They were no longer white - in fact, it was nearly impossible to tell that they had even been so in the first place. For his first two years of schooling, he would find constant comfort in Eda Primary's pallid paintjob.

Ever since he was nine and starting his third year of schooling there, though, this no longer rang true. He learned for the first time just how stifling the white walls could be. It was not a notion that came to him consciously - in fact, it would not be until he was twelve that he realized what the walls were doing to him. His bland environment was suppressing his ideas. The way that the fluorescent lights further illuminated the walls made it that much easier to stare at a textbook. It was harder to play his old Ibanez in the cafeteria than it was on the playground. Outside, there was color, vibrancy, and the occasional ghastly injury to inspire a riff. Inside ... nothing. He got absolutely nothing.

Now, as he stared blankly at the wall, fury mingled with his previous irritations. It was paradoxical that, while the walls usually inhibited his thoughts, they fuelled them on today. He sat in the hallway outside the guidance councilor's office with a few of his classmates, and stewed in his anger and fatigue. There was something else there too - something that he used to be very familiar with, but had actually not felt for some time now.

He was disappointed, and for that, he was disappointed in himself. He should have known better than to get his hopes up, but he did, anyway. He should have known better than to listen to his mother, no matter how convincing she sounded. He should have known better than to expect her to keep her word.

_"So, subject selection must be coming up pretty soon."_

_Skwisgaar paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. His mother was - talking to him? It sure seemed as such. She was sitting down across the table from him, and smiled pleasantly before taking a sip of hot coffee._

_"Ja, tomorrow."_

_Serveta raised her eyebrows in surprise. "_Tomorrow?_ That soon? I hope you've been thinking about what subjects you're going to take next year. You're going on to Secondary school, right? I would hope you are ... I wouldn't want to see that mind of yours go to waste."_

Skwisgaar's slight scowl deepened, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips formed a tight, miniscule line. He couldn't believe that, with those words, he had been lured into his mother's trap.

_"I've been thinking about it, ja, but I'm still not entirely sure," Skwisgaar carefully lied about his aspirations with a small shrug. "It's hard, because I need to know what I want to do for a career before I can choose my classes."_

_"Are you still thinking about being a pilot?" Serveta asked him curiously._

_The piece of potato on Skwisgaar's fork actually fell off at her question. She remembered his childhood dream? Well, it wasn't really restricted to his youth, he'd have to say. He still had the urge now and then to learn how to fly a plane._

_"Yeah, kind of," Skwisgaar quietly admitted._

_Serveta grinned at him again before her eyes trailed towards the clock on the wall. "I have to run some errands today, but I should be home tonight. Would you like to sit down with me, and try to figure it all out?"_

Skwisgaar sniffed disapprovingly. It was one thing for his mother to go about her life as though he wasn't a part of it, but this ... _this_ had been downright _cruel_.

His day was supposed to be spent preparing for what he would soon be undertaking within the next few minutes. Instead, though, he found himself concocting elaborate, furious speeches to give his mother the next time he saw her sober. His tired mind knew that he would never say such things to her, but that did not dispel the urge to yell, scream, taunt, and curse at an imaginary figment that physically represented her in every which way.

He'd cut band practice short in order to discuss his future plans with her. He _never_ did that; last night had marked the first time. He had decided that eight o'clock would be a good time to return home, and endured Thorsten's pissy comments about it until he'd made his way out the door.

_He walked with a sense of excitement deeply embedded in his chest, and with no qualms or worries about his mother's promise. By the time he arrived on his own street, he had considered asking her if she would like to attend his next show._

_When he came to his house, he found that it was still dark. He shrugged it off; so she wasn't home quite yet. No matter - Serveta hardly ever ran errands. Skwisgaar supposed that, since this was such a sparse occasion, she had decided to overdo herself._

_Skwisgaar let himself in, and searched the kitchen for any kind of indication towards why his mother was not yet home. He frowned slightly when he discovered that she had not left a note. Maybe she hadn't foreseen being home so late, or hadn't planned on speaking with Skwisgaar until even later. She couldn't be much longer, though. The shops didn't stay open all night. They had to be closing soon, and that would usher Serveta home to him._

_He took a seat at the kitchen table, and opened up his school bag. From inside, he withdrew an untidy stack of papers that he'd retracted from the back of his locker on Friday afternoon. He took his time in organizing them, glancing up hopefully every time that he heard the slightest noise outside. When his papers were ordered and placed in a neat pile, he sat patiently at the table for all of two minutes before standing up again and glancing out beyond the curtains. The street was empty, spare for a pair of squabbling cats. Skwisgaar watched them with interest until they disappeared down an alleyway, and then allowed for the curtain to fall back into place._

_He lingered momentarily in the kitchen, listening to the silence. He never liked the silence, and always preferred to fill it. It made sense to, anyway, especially in this particular situation. He'd cut band practice short to come home, the house was too quiet, and his hands were already feeling restless for not having the Flying V in their grasp for so long. So, without any further contemplation, Skwisgaar walked down the hallway towards his bedroom. _

Skwisgaar's eyes narrowed into slits after blinking heavily. He couldn't _believe_ how stupid he'd been about the entire situation. Practicing the newest solo that he'd formulated was intermitted every quarter hour or so, when he would venture aimlessly back into the general area of the house and search for any sign of his mother.

_At nine-thirty, he began to grow worried. He wondered why she had not yet returned home, and felt a fleeting panic as he considered all possible happenings. Had she been in a car accident? Had someone tried to hold up a store that she'd been shopping at, and she was injured?_

It was not until a full hour later, at ten-thirty, that Skwisgaar realized the truth. When it came to him in a wave not unlike nausea, he staggered under the weight of it. She had forgotten him. She had forgotten her promise. She had forgotten that, that night, it was not about her; it was about her son, his education, and his future.

_Skwisgaar did not know how to deal with such fluctuated emotions. First came numbness, which was easy enough. Then, anger took hold of him, laced with very fine frustration and injury. His head spun, and he felt immensely dizzy. It was a wonder that he managed to make it back to his bedroom without falling over, or making a detour into the bathroom. It was overwhelming to the point where he could not sleep. The thought that Serveta had once again undertaken selfish endeavors would not rid itself from his mind. He tossed and turned in his bed for the good part of three hours before finally slipping out from beneath the blanket, turning on his light, and taking up his guitar once again._

Four-thirty. His mother hadn't returned home until _four-thirty_, drunk and on a man's arm.

_Skwisgaar listened hard to the deep, raspy voice she always used while trying to direct someone to her bedroom, and then turned his amp up accordingly to cover the sounds that followed from next door. Twenty-five minutes of pure torture later, it was deemed safe by him to crawl back into his bed and try to sleep. He was fairly certain that Serveta and her most recent partner had passed out from a mixture of alcohol and sexual fatigue, and that he would not hear them again. _

With less than three hours of sleep, Skwisgaar had collected up the untouched papers on the table, ate one measly slice of toast, and walked bleary-eyed to school. He was late when he arrived, which earned him a stern glance from her first teacher of the day, Mrs. Frisk. He didn't care, though. In fact, he cared so little that he spent the duration of History class making up for all that he hadn't done the night before. At one point, he thought that Mrs. Frisk had seen what he was working on under the desk, but perhaps not. She hadn't said anything, because maybe she knew that trying to plan his classes for the next year was much more important than reviewing the final exam he'd written last Thursday for her class. It was slow work, especially since every pen stroke reminded him of why he was doing this now, instead of already having it done. There were a lot of idle pauses on his part, in which he would add another line or aspect to the speech he was mentally compiling. In the end, he grew discouraged with his venture, and tossed the papers into the trash bin on his way out of the classroom.

And so now here he was, sitting in awkward silence with two old playmates of his and a former conquest, waiting to be called in to see Mr. Sundgren. Skwisgaar's gaze remained fixed on the spot of bare wall next to Mr. Sundgren's door, for he could see Janna trying to get his attention from the corner of his eye. Judging by the confrontation he'd been forced to endure a few weeks ago, she was having a very hard time accepting the fact that he wanted nothing more from her.

Finally, there came the sound of scraping chairs from within the office. As he assumed, the last meeting before his own was finished. A boy named Markus emerged from within, looking relieved, and gamboled happily down the hallway. Behind him, a walrus of a man poked his head out the door, and pushed his spectacles further up his nose as he cleared his throat. "Skwisgaar, you're up."

He momentarily stopped plucking away at his Flying V as he followed Mr. Sundgren in and took a seat at the desk. As soon as he was comfortable, his fingers starting flying over the frets again, mutely playing one of the Helloween songs that he was so determined to learn. Mr. Sundgren regarded him with an expression of mild interest before speaking. "So, Skwisgaar, tell me. Are you considering Secondary education?"

He shrugged. His bad mood made him want to be as uncooperative in this meeting as possible.

Mr. Sundgren leaned forward onto his desk. "That's a very vague answer. What do you want to do with your life? You must have given it some consideration over the years."

"Ja, I have," Skwisgaar told him, and then paused as his busy fingers brought him into the solo. "Tell me, Mr. Sundgren ... do you need Secondary education to be a musician?"

Skwisgaar thought that the answer to his question was fairly obvious to both of the room's occupants, and so he was surprised when it took so long for Mr. Sundgren to reply. However, his answer was neither a confirmation nor a declination. "I had a feeling that you'd be asking me this."

Skwisgaar slowed in his playing, and furrowed his brow as he considered Mr. Sundgren's tone. It was very hard to tell if his statement was positive or negative by its usual, monotonous tendency. "Listen, Skwisgaar, though your skills on the guitar are, well, nothing short of admirable, the dream to become a musician is not entirely a realistic one. You truly need to be exceptional, and-"

"I _am_ exceptional," Skwisgaar reminded him shortly, and then resumed his normal speed of playing.

"You need to let me finish," Mr. Sundgren patiently spoke in a manner that made Skwisgaar think the man was addressing a very small child. "You need to be exceptional, yes, but you also need a good, fair amount of luck. Are you willing to plan your future around such an unpredictable thing? That's like Mr. Bergstrom, earlier this afternoon. _He_ plans on winning the lottery, and then retiring."

Skwisgaar's previous anger still boiled right beneath the surface, and he knew for sure that the last thing he needed today was _this_. "So, you're telling me not to follow my dream. Isn't that what the school pays you to do?"

Mr. Sundgren did not miss the venom dripping from Skwisgaar's words. He normally refused to be subjected to such disrespect, but decided that taking the teenager's bait and descending into an argument would be rather counter-productive. "Not exactly. I get paid to help the students here realize a feasible goal and get them on their way towards it. I am not saying that you shouldn't pursue musical endeavors, Mr. Skwigelf, but I am going to advise that you prepare a back-up plan, should your first one fall through."

Skwisgaar pursed his lips in thought. He, of course, knew for sure that one day his ability to play the guitar would take him places. But, if preparing a second option meant that he would get out of here faster, then so be it. "Ja, that makes sense."

"Good," Mr. Sundgren leaned back in his chair, now relaxed and ready to discuss the boy's future. "So, have you given any thought to potential career plans outside of music?"

Half-heartedly, Skwisgaar replied, "I want to fly a plane."

Mr. Sundgren raised a solitary eyebrow. "Do you _really_, Skwisgaar?"

"Yes, I want to fly a plane!" he snipped.

"I was just making sure," Sundgren spoke soothingly. "You don't sound very enthusiastic about it, is all."

He shrugged. "I'm tired today, all right?"

_'And grumpy,'_ loomed between them. "Well, Skwisgaar, the flight school in Stockholm isn't as selective as it used to be, so you'll be glad to hear that. There are few required classes, such as Physics, English, Swedish, and Math, but they _do_ ask for high grade averages. So, I encourage you to enter a couple other academic courses, and try your best to excel at them. Your records indicate you with a G average, but I think that you could do better than this. If you pulled up your socks next year, and brought it up to a VG, then I think you could be well on your way to being received there ... that is, if your musician plans fall through."

Skwisgaar nodded uninterestedly.

Mr. Sundgren took out a form with the school emblem on it and a couple dozen check boxes. "What other classes would you like to take?"

"I _have to_ go into Physics, English, Swedish, and Math?"

"Yes, so pick two more," Mr. Sundgren told him as he checked off the required classes on the form. "You do quite well with History. Would you like to reenter that?"

"Sure, I guess."

"All right." Mr. Sundgren seemed in a better mood, now that the meeting was going in a more constructive direction. "Anything else you can think of, that you'd like to take?"

Skwisgaar thought about the options he'd read on his sheets when they were first handed out. There wasn't really anything else that he was particularly interested in. Besides, Physics, Math, and History? That was bulky enough. English class wasn't so bad. He thought that he was doing quite well in there so far, even if his records indicated otherwise. And Swedish class was always a bit of a joke. _Those_ two would be a breeze. "Can't I have a study block, or something?"

Mr. Sundgren managed a small smile. "Yes, I'm sure I could manage in getting you one. Mind you, a study block is only for students that use it wisely, Skwisgaar. If I see you sitting in the library or cafeteria and playing your guitar instead of doing homework or studying, I will be obligated to take it away from you."

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Whatever. Are we done here?"

The councilor studied him closely, pondering his question in what Skwisgaar thought was harder than it called for. "Almost. I just want to remind you of something, and then you'll be on your way. I want you to know, Skwisgaar, that you won't need to worry at all about financing your Secondary education. The state pays for schooling, and so-"

Mr. Sundgren was cut off as Skwisgaar rose quickly to his feet, and glared down at him. Judging by the way the student's eyes flashed, he had touched a very tender nerve. "I don't need any money from the government. I'm not some - some _welfare_ case! You don't think I'm capable of paying my way through school? I made over a hundred krones last weekend ... and in less than an hour at that! Playing my _guitar_!"

Skwisgaar's breathing was heavy, and he felt as though he'd just finished running a marathon. His heart wouldn't slow down, and he immediately regretted what he had just said, and how. He was quite certain that Mr. Sundgren would not withstand the mannerisms, and would send him off to see the principal. However, as shocked as Mr. Sundgren seemed by Skwisgaar's sudden outburst, it did not reflect Skwisgaar's surprise when the councilor finally replied.

"I was just stating the facts," Mr. Sundgren carefully told him, in somewhat of a daze. "This is true for everyone. No student pays for education in Sweden."

Skwisgaar averted his gaze in shame. "Right."

A moment of silence passed before Mr. Sundgren finally dismissed him. "I do believe we're done here. You may go."

More relieved than he thought was possible to hear that, Skwisgaar made a beeline towards the door. He could feel Mr. Sundgren's lingering gaze on him, but did not dare look back. The fact that he had displayed such blatant and uncalled for anger embarrassed him. His shame deepened as he reemerged in the hallway, and was subjected to the accusatory stares of his peers. He wondered for a second how they'd known what happened in the councilor's office, but then he realized that they must have heard him shouting. His stomach plummeted as he wondered if they'd heard what he said. He cringed; he _had_ yelled rather loudly, and they _did_ seem more knowing than usual ...

Skwisgaar didn't know it to be possible, but he was now angrier with himself than he'd been at his mother earlier that day. He had always done so well in hiding his problems from his peers at school, who he assumed thought he was quite well off. It probably wasn't a hard rationalization to reach, since he paraded around with an expensive guitar, and Serveta Skwigelf _was_ kind of famous - though, that didn't mean that they were swimming in cash. He did not look forward to hearing the rumors that would begin flying around about his family, if any. He knew that Janna had a bit of a motormouth, and would use that information to her advantage, since he'd been ignoring her. He wondered briefly if taking her out to dinner, or something equally as stupid, would mean keeping her quiet. But, then, he decided that she didn't deserve _that_ much attention. Not from him, nor from anyone else.

He busied himself first in putting his guitar back into its case, and then threw his backpack over his shoulder. He wanted to get out of there right away, before Janna, or Anton and Carl could either see or catch up to him. He didn't expect them to. Anton, being a Soderburg, would have been next in line for Mr. Sundgren. Carl wouldn't follow on principle, since they'd had that nasty falling-out, and Janna would be too self-conscious to try and discuss the matter with him.

Good. That left him alone with ... ugh, just his thoughts. _Again._

He wished that he had enough time to go home and have a quick nap before practice, but the band had agreed the night before that they would start up directly after school. Thorsten and Dag knew that Skwisgaar had a meeting with the guidance councilor, and so might be a little later than usual, but it was still only three o'clock. He wasn't too far behind schedule, really. So, maybe Thorsten wouldn't make such a big deal about it. They had plenty of time to play, since Skwisgaar had resolved not to return home until he was sure that his mother was out again for the night.

A sense of anticipation gripped him as he slowly walked down the few streets that would lead him to Thorsten's house. They had spoken briefly before Skwisgaar left about possibly securing a few gigs over the summer, and Thorsten had resolved to phone back the places he'd established contact with earlier in the week. Skwisgaar had been excited at the time about getting out of town for a short while, but now he was nothing short of fucking _ecstatic_ at the prospect of temporary escape.

Though, he was slightly worried about how Al Il El would be received. They were, by no means, the best band that Skwisgaar had ever played in. Far from it, in fact. The only reason he really agreed to play with them was because it was local, and because his shortage of money for the time being really limited his transportation options. However, the fact that playing guitar with Toki in Lillehammer gave him nearly five times the amount of money necessary for a bus ticket _was_ quite comforting. Earning an income while doing such a thing was surprisingly easy, but he knew that he would not pull it off in his own town. It was far too small, and the people would more than likely tire quickly of supporting him.

Lillehammer was a good town for that. It was big enough that he could easily make a lot of money before the flow eventually came to a stop. Hanging around with Toki, in hindsight, hadn't been that bad, either. Sure, Skwisgaar had been slightly nervous about falling asleep on Saturday night, just in case history repeated itself, but his dreams had been plagued once again with intense performances of the highest magnitude. _That_ had been a relief.

Skwisgaar came to the train tracks. Thorsten's house was now in sight, and the pounding of his stereo was in earshot. He assumed that they had grown bored, waiting for him. Oh, well. He was still earlier than he had initially thought he would be - he had told Thorsten to expect him sometime around three-thirty or four. He really _had_ thought he'd be that late, but he guessed that with so many kids in his year pursuing dreams such as the _lottery_, Mr. Sundgren had managed in getting through them all rather quicker than usual.

He banged as loudly as he could on the front door, but knew it to be quite pointless. As he thought would happen, no one invited him in. He waited patiently for the song to end - for that brief silence to come - and then repeated his action. There was a curse from inside, and then the sound of scrambling as either Thorsten or Dag came to greet him. When the door swung open, he wasn't surprised that his first sight was a pair of blood-shot eyes. "Oh, hey! We didn't think you'd be here this soon! Come on in!"

Judging by the scarily cheerful tone as donned by the bassist and frontman, Thorsten was definitely under the influence of something. His disheveled appearance and his stumble over an imaginary - something - only confirmed that. Sure enough, when he stepped inside, he spotted Dag sitting on the couch, bent over the coffee table, and doing lines with a twenty krona bill. Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow in disapproval as he took a careful seat on the couch opposite Dag and Thorsten. _This_ was what he was skipping a nap for? He wouldn't believe for a _minute_ that either of his fellow band members were in any shape or form to play their instruments.

"Eh?" Dag grunted unintelligently, holding out his makeshift straw to Skwisgaar.

Skwisgaar declined, and instead preoccupied himself with removing his guitar from its case and beginning to play. His annoyance was growing exponentially, and he knew that if he didn't say something, he was going to implode. "So, are we going to practice, or what? I skipped sleep to come watch you two get fucked up? Seriously, if that's all you're doing tonight, I'm going to go home."

That's not entirely true, Skwisgaar thought to himself. He wouldn't go home, but he sure as hell wouldn't stay here. His mother wouldn't have vacated the premises until approximately seven or eight o'clock, and he would have to hold out until that time if he wanted to avoid confrontation of any form. Actually, he didn't even want to _see_ her.

"Ah, no, we're fine," Thorsten told him after snorting more of the white powder. "Let's play, Dag, so that the _lady_ can go get his beauty sleep."

Dag laughed sharply at this. Skwisgaar was more than certain his face had changed to a shade of red that a lobster would be proud of. If it was out of anger, embarrassment, or both ... he could not be so sure.

Skwisgaar did not expect for them to play long at all, because of their intoxicated states. However, the cocaine gave them a more than efficient energy boost, and Skwisgaar found himself being nearly outplayed by them. This would, of course, never happen if Skwisgaar had been on full form fatigue-wise and the other two men hadn't decided to get high before he showed up. Even though their endurance increased significantly, Skwisgaar found there to be a lot more desired to their playing. Dag was hitting the drums far too enthusiastically, often compromising his rhythm for stupidly twirling his sticks above his head, and calling a time-out as he ran to fetch them. Thorsten, on the other hand, didn't hit a single right note. His fingers flew rapidly over his bass' frets, but often landed in a significantly wrong position.

Despite their constant slip-ups, Skwisgaar tried his best to maintain the far-too-simple riffs and solos, but it was a very sorry practice, overall. The longer he went on, the more his desire grew to just give up and go home. Through the easiest solo of all that he had written, he couldn't help but wonder again why he'd taken up Thorsten's request to be in the band. He was starting to think that being in no band at all was better than Al Il El. If Ingmar hadn't turned out to be such a dildo, he would have dropped these guys like a _hat_ ...

"I think that's all I can do," Thorsten panted a little over an hour later. Skwisgaar desired nothing more than to share his thoughts on what Thorsten had (or hadn't) done during their practice. But, now that Thorsten was finally coming down, it would not be a good idea to come off as confrontational to the bassist. His temper was already hard enough to handle as it was, and the thought of what the twenty-seven-year-old might be like when the cocaine stopped affecting him was almost a scary one.

"Fuck yeah," Dag hollowly agreed with him. "Good practice, though."

Skwisgaar snorted. However, since Thorsten and Dag had been preoccupied with untangling themselves from their instruments, neither of them heard it. They ignored him, actually, and pushed past him on their way back to the living room, where their drug waited for them. Hesitantly, and with an annoyed sigh, Skwisgaar followed them. When he came in behind them, Dag was furiously rolling his banknote up again, and Thorsten was berating him on his speed, or lack thereof. When the percussionist was finally finished, Thorsten snatched it out of his grip and snorted a line much longer than necessary before handing it back.

Thorsten grinned, and sunk further down into his seat. "_Shit_, that's good. You're sure you don't want any, Skwisgaar?"

What he _wanted_ was to get the fuck out of there, go home, lock himself in his room, and sleep without any interruption until the sun had risen. Between Thorsten, Dag, and his mother, though, he sincerely doubted that would happen. Despite it all, he was nearly tempted to take Thorsten up on his offer. What would his mother have to say to _that_, if he came home hopped up on some illegal substance? Not much, he concluded, since she probably wouldn't even notice. And, so, "No."

Thorsten disregarded his refusal completely. He leaned back against the couch, closed his eyes, and for all Skwisgaar knew, was either sleeping or in the process of slipping into a coma. Either way, he didn't really care. Sure, if Thorsten died, there'd probably be some strange questions thrown his way by the local police, but whatever. His system was clean, so they couldn't do anything to him. Whatever Thorsten was doing, it posed a great time for Skwisgaar to sneak out unnoticed and be on his way home - _finally_.

He made to stand, but Thorsten took this exact moment to be affected once again by the drug. His eyes darted every which way, and then finally stopped on the fleeing guitarist. "Where do you think you're going? We have band stuff to discuss."

"Like?" Skwisgaar asked a little shorter than he meant to.

"Gigs," Thorsten answered simply. "We got them. Dag, where's the map? We'll show him."

Dag obediently stood and fetched the map from the kitchen table, but not without making a fifteen-minute detour into a broom closet. Thorsten and Skwisgaar watched its door, respectively amused and confused, until their drummer rejoined them, acting as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had just occurred.

"We'll be playing in town next Tuesday, and then heading Charlottenberg way," Thorsten pointed out to Skwisgaar. His finger traced the route, which led into Norway and continued in a northern direction. "Magnor, Eidskog, and then finally Kongsvinger. I was thinking that we'd head west more, you know, towards Oslo. I'm still trying to get hold of the guy in Bjorkelangen."

Skwisgaar nodded. It all seemed fine to him, but, then again, he really didn't care where he played, so long as it wasn't in Eda for any longer than the first night. "All right, well, I'm going to go home."

"_What?_" The angrier side of Thorsten came out for a brief second before he returned to his drugged-up, kinder persona. "You're not even going to have a drink with us?"

Fuck, the man could be almost _endearing_ when he was high. "It's a school night."

"Yeah, but ..." Dag thought long and hard. "Tomorrow is your last day. And you only go until noon."

"True, but I'm not going to sit in school for four hours with a hangover," Skwisgaar shrugged, and stood to leave again.

Thorsten looked as though Skwisgaar had just told him he planned on courting his mother. "Dude. We're not asking you to get _drunk_ with us. Just a little bit. Not even enough to get you buzzed, if you're going to be such a lady about it."

Skwisgaar's right hand tensed, and he seriously, with all his mind, considered hitting him, if it meant he would shut up. It would remain as only a thought though, for Skwisgaar knew better than to fuck his hand up so soon before a bout of gigs. Besides, the man was doing cocaine - chances were high that he didn't even know what he was saying. Skwisgaar had made it very clear in the past that he was not to be referred to as a member of the opposite gender, and he was quite skeptical that Thorsten remembered that particular argument at the moment, given his state of mind.

"Fine," he stiffly agreed.

"Good boy," Thorsten addressed him like he would a faithful pet. "I'll get you a beer. Maybe I'll check out what was going on in that closet, too."

Skwisgaar shrugged him off. The fact that Thorsten was now going into the closet meant that he had at least a good solid ten minutes in which he could escape. He even took a step towards the door, but stopped when his eyes drifted over Thorsten's roadmap of Scandinavia. Despite the fact that his mind was screaming at him to run before Thorsten could corner him again, he bent over to pick it up. Dag was staring at it too, and Skwisgaar wondered if the percussionist would show annoyance when he snatched it out of his vision. However, when he took it off the coffee table, Dag's gaze remained in the same spot. Skwisgaar realized that Dag hadn't been looking at the map. In fact, he hadn't been looking at ... anything in particular.

He sat in the semi-darkness for a moment, and then rationalized that it would not do if he were to read anything. So, before indulging himself in the map, Skwisgaar rose from his seat and flicked the light on. After glancing around, he groaned inwardly. He wished that he'd just left them off.

White walls. Annoyingly, retina-burning, squint-worthy white. He knew that when Thorsten was not high or in a bad mood, he was a compulsive cleaner, but this was _ridiculous_. Had he _varnished_ the walls to make them this bright?

Deciding that the lights being off would defeat the purpose of trying to read the map, he reluctantly returned to his armchair, shielding his eyes from the sudden brilliance that bombarded them. He came to the conclusion that, yes, Thorsten varnished the walls. Not only that, but he used light bulbs that exceeded the necessary wattage by at _least_ three-hundred percent. He thought for a moment how lucky he was to not put up with this at home. His room wasn't white. It was not as though it was dirty - he actually managed in keeping it quite tidy and simple. It was just that his walls were littered with band posters and half-naked women. Unless the ladies were particularly sun-starved or wearing white lingerie, he never saw that putrid color.

Skwisgaar was momentarily distracted as a high-pitched giggling came from the broom closet. He raised an eyebrow dryly at it, and then refocused his attention on the piece of paper before him. It was so easy to look at, having been grotesquely colored with various shades of green, blue, red, and yellow. This was _obviously_ not printed in Sweden. He decided to check. On the back, he found his answer: _Printed in Denmark_. That figured; Dutch scum.

Lying aside his prejudices, he turned back to the route that Thorsten had previously shown him. It only led up to Kongsvinger ...

There was no reason why they couldn't go further north. Besides, Skwisgaar was pretty sure what it meant, when Thorsten wasn't getting his phone calls returned from the western venues. He wondered if he could show the front man his logic. It was more than likely that he would be more inclined to listen in his inebriated state.

Now, if he would just get out of that _damned_ closet. What was going on in there, anyway?

He stared at the closed door, waiting. Finally, looking as though he'd just unlocked every single secret of the universe, Thorsten emerged. He took a quiet, humble seat across from Skwisgaar, and ignored the patronizing stare that he was receiving. "Thorsten, we should go further north in our tour."

The front man's brows furrowed together. "Further north? Why the fuck would we do that?"

"You _know_ that we're not going to go west," Skwisgaar told him in a stern voice. "You know as well as I do that they're avoiding your calls. So, we should go further north, you know, until the dildos out west realize that we're the real deal."

That lie nearly made him swallow his tongue in attempt to not laugh out loud. It was exactly what Thorsten needed to hear, though, and the front man slowly nodded as he mulled it over. "Ja ... _ja!_ You're _right!_ Fuck, Skwisgaar ... once those guys hear about what we've been doing up north, they'll be _begging_ us to play for them! Give me that map! I'm going to make some fucking phone calls!"

"Do it tomorrow, when you're not as high," Skwisgaar instructed as he handed the map over. "They might not take you seriously if you're talking a mile a minute."

"Right," Thorsten resolutely nodded. "Okay, so, next on the route would be Ringsaker, and then Lillehammer ... shit, how far should we go?"

Skwisgaar's intent and purpose for bringing this conversation up was to only go as far as the latter, but he did not let this on. "I don't care."

"Shit," Thorsten's eyes flew over the colorful paper. "We could go to, like, Trondheim!"

Skwisgaar chuckled darkly. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"What was that?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing."

Thorsten accepted it, and then continued to study the map, making odd exclamations as to where they could play, going as far as to suggest Helsinki and Moscow. When he came down again an hour-and-a-half later or so, he took more cocaine, collected more maps, and then commenced to plan Al Il El's world tour.

Skwisgaar would have left a long time ago, but he wanted to be sure that Thorsten was committed to the idea of extending their tour long enough to at least bring him to Lillehammer. He greatly imagined that Ingmar, Tallak, and Egil would be present at the gig, were they to play there, and he promised himself that if they were to approach him again, he wouldn't storm off this time. Ingmar may be a dick, but he wasn't as big of one as Thorsten could be, intoxicated or not. He just wished that the rage he'd experienced while meeting the dildo for the first time hadn't blinded him to this fact.

"... And then we'll end it off in Johannesburg!" Thorsten triumphantly stated. "See, Skwisgaar?" He gestured toward all the maps that lay littered upon his knees and the floor surrounding him. "We'll be big before you even fuckin' _know_ it."

"Great," Skwisgaar heavily resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, I'm going to go."

"Okay, we'll see you later!" Thorsten bid him good-bye cheerfully.

That had been arduous. Skwisgaar was not used to it being so hard to sit for so long at a band mate's house, but that was _something else_. He wished, more than ever, that he had just taken Tallak's offer and quit Al Il El before the group had a chance to embarrass him, come stage time. Oh, well. Things tended to happen at their own, natural pace, and so Skwisgaar knew that the right time for it would eventually come. Besides, storming out of Tallak's house hadn't been a _complete_ waste of time. He'd managed to make a quick hundred krones, and, well, a new acquaintance, he supposed.

Skwisgaar pursed his lips as he walked. He _still_ wasn't sure how to feel about Toki. The kid obviously wasn't a bad seed, but he certainly was a little on the strange side. That seemed to be all his parents' fault, though. Maybe if they weren't so protective of him, or whatever they were, he wouldn't be so clingy, or socially inadequate. Honestly ... Skwisgaar was a complete stranger to him, and he'd trusted him like _that!_ What if Skwisgaar had been some middle-aged creep, or just someone looking to destroy a family?

Then again, maybe that was why Mr. and Mrs. Wartooth kept such a close eye on their son. But ... did they? Skwisgaar couldn't recall seeing either of them while he and Toki played his grandpa's guitar, and they _had_ left him to sit on the church steps all those years ago while they attended mass. Their family was enigmatic, at best, and it was giving Skwisgaar a headache to think about it all over again.

Skwisgaar hadn't forgotten his assurance to Toki, though. It hadn't been much of a promise, but recent events had given the Swede the determination to show how he was different than Serveta. _He_ could keep a promise, and he would be _damned_ if he was going to break it. Besides, the excitement that Toki had displayed when Skwisgaar told him he'd see what he could do about letting the young Norwegian watch him play live made him feel ... better. How in the hell could that kid be so _happy_, when his life was obviously in the shits? This puzzled Skwisgaar further, and he shut all further thoughts about the young boy from his mind.

There was a time for everything, and now was _definitely_ not a good moment to be thinking about _this_. He already had enough to be going by. Besides, his mother had not yet left for the evening, and her company's vehicle was still parked along the street.


	4. Three

**Three: A Night On The Town  
**

**Chapter Summary and Notes:**

**Skwisgaar makes a drunken promise to Toki.**

* * *

If there was one thing tours were good for, it was self-destruction. If it was sex, drugs, or alcohol that you wanted, it was by all means obtainable. Whether the crowd liked you or not, you could always rely upon those three vital things. When you couldn't depend upon your bandmates for _anything_, you could count on at least two of said choices to transform the days and nights into a wondrous, colorful blur. Of course, if color wasn't your thing, there was always a guy on the next corner who could offer you something else.

For Skwisgaar, tonight was one of those nights. Nearly everything was in shades of black and white. The sky was black, with no stars or moon to be seen through the clouds. The sidewalk he was perched upon was a dark grey, as were the closed stores behind him. The cigarette from which he took a long drag before inhaling and succumbing to a fit of coughs was white. The bottled alcohol in his hand was colorless. He was armed with the means to color the town. He had nicotine and he had alcohol, which had begun to affect him quite some time ago. Excellent.

Lillehammer was very quiet when the day came to an end, he found. There was hardly anyone on the streets, except for those who lived the nightlife. A little further down the road, the bar at which he had just played provided the only noise. His evening hadn't gone _quite_ to plan. The set had sucked, Tallak, Ingmar, and Egil did not show up, and Thorsten hadn't even _tried_ to help him when the bartender cast him out onto the street. After all that, though, he somehow managed to feel pretty good.

That was probably due to his growing inebriation, and the fact that the cigarettes he stole from Thorsten only added to the rushing feeling in his head.

He took the cigarette up again, and crossed his eyes to watch the burning embers while he inhaled. He paused with the smoke in his mouth, wondering if he should allow its entrance to his lungs. Deciding that he really had nothing to lose by it, he did. And choked. Again.

This elicited a frown. Since when hadn't he been able to handle this? He'd smoked quite regularly when he was fourteen. Well, it wasn't as though he'd ever gotten _addicted_ to the things. He never liked the feeling of the smoke crawling down his throat, and so usually avoided inhalation. Tonight was the most that he had ever actually smoked - out of the four or five cigarettes that he'd burned through so far he'd taken maybe seven actual puffs into his lungs. That was all fine in itself, since he wasn't aiming to get hooked. This entire undertaking was more of a stab at Thorsten, who he imagined would grow immensely pissed when he discovered his Elixyrs to be missing.

He slipped into a bit of a routine. Mouthful of smoke, then a mouthful of vodka. Occasionally, a cough. He was starting to feel the booze a lot more than he had after any other gig, which was odd, because he'd been drinking like this every night. Maybe it was the cigarettes, somehow. Or maybe it was because he sat alone.

He wanted to be by himself right now. In fact, he was nearly _glad_ that the bartender had tossed him out. Sure, it was a little chilly, windy, and eerie, but he felt fine. The alcohol warmed him from within, and while intoxicated he felt nearly invincible. Besides, he'd already decided that if anyone tried to start some shit with him, he was going to poke them in the eye with the burning end of his cigarette. He knew it worked on warding people off, because he'd seen Thorsten do it a few nights ago to some unfortunate man in Kongsvinger. He frowned when he remembered that, had he not ducked, it would have been _him_ with an eyeful of smoldering ash.

What he _couldn't_ remember was what had evoked that behavior from Al Il El's frontman. Had he actually done anything? He wondered if maybe he'd revealed his concerns about Thorsten using cocaine before playing. It was severely limiting their capabilities, and nearly caused Skwisgaar to leave the stage at one point. He didn't _think_ he'd said anything about that, but, then again, he _was_ spending the majority of his time away from home either drunk, or something resembling it. Then again, so was Thorsten, and when he drank ... his anger was not very well directed.

When Skwisgaar realized that Thorsten had tried to injure him, he grew determined not to speak to him until their gigs were finished. It turned out that the only extra show they could get was in Lillehammer, rendering all of Thorsten's frenzied planning for a world tour useless. The dick in Bjørkelangen refused them, and Ringsaker _'didn't have any room to squeeze them in'_, which was basically a kinder wording of the phrase, _'fuck you'_, as far as Skwisgaar was concerned.

He failed to see how Al Il El was going to go anywhere, but Thorsten and Dag remained convinced. They didn't listen to Skwisgaar, who had experience in this type of thing. They just _assumed_ that because they started up a band, did drugs, and somehow managed to nab the best guitarist around, they were going to make it big. But Skwisgaar knew better, and had given up on trying to tell Thorsten this. Wait a minute - could that possibly be why the bassist tried to blind him?

Son of a bitch, it was.

Since he was no longer speaking to his other band members, the ride up to Lillehammer had been nearly intolerable. Whenever they met a vehicle larger than the one they were driving, Skwisgaar nearly hoped that Dag would veer into the other lane and just end it all. It wasn't as though he had a death wish - far from it - but at the time, a hospital bed or coffin seemed much more bearable than sitting in silence in Thorsten's shitty van. So, as soon as they arrived in the lively, bustling Norwegian town, Skwisgaar left them. They weren't due to play until the next day, since they had counted on stopping in Ringsaker that night and left it available for the gig that never happened.

To Skwisgaar's pleasant surprise, his aimless wanderings unintentionally brought him to the place near the bus station where he and Toki had played together. He knew there were incredibly slim odds of actually finding him there, but the location made Skwisgaar think beyond himself and of the little boy who had kept him company during his last time in town. Craving some sort of interaction outside of Thorsten and Dag, he then took himself to Toki's church, in hopes that he might be there. The place was for the time abandoned and, without human presence, appeared incredibly run down. A little deterred, though refusing to return to his bandmates, he continued searching. It became a sort of game for him as he tried to slip into the Wartooths' mindset, but it was incredibly difficult. He didn't know the reverend and his wife at all, and he didn't know very much about Toki. He _did_ try to find the record store the boy had briefly spoken about, but it proved to be a lost cause. When he discovered that he was only moving in circles around the town, he decided to call it quits. Besides, he had the next day as well to look for the small boy before taking the stage.

Skwisgaar didn't feel _too_ awful about not finding him. He tried his hardest, after all. Though his conscience didn't bug him about it, the entire situation still kind of nagged at him. He would have liked to have company outside of Al Il El, if only for a little while-

He jumped slightly as someone sat down next to him and yelled in his ear, "Hey! I _thought_ it was you sitting here-! Um, what are you doing?"

"Uh ..." Skwisgaar looked up at his closed fist, which he had poised to strike the intruder with the butt end of his cigarette, as planned earlier that evening. However, when he realized that he knew who was disturbing his solidarity, he slowly lowered his weapon and did not bother to explain himself. Besides, there was a more pressing matter to attend to for the time being. "... Toki?"

The boy's eyes lit up when he realized that Skwisgaar remembered him, even when the Swede was quite far-gone in the ways of alcohol. "Ja! What are you doing here? I thought you said you weren't ever coming back!"

Skwisgaar paused. He thought about how odd it was to be found by the young Norwegian when he had just been thinking about him. He didn't answer Toki's question, but reposed it. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh, you know, sometimes when my mother and father go to church I get bored, so I come here," Toki fervently explained. "I like to listen to the music, but they never let me in."

Skwisgaar chuckled pessimistically. "I know how _that_ is. They won't even let _me_ in, and I _played_ there, earlier. Hey, you want some?" He offered Toki his bottle of Russian import.

Toki regarded it cautiously, and then shook his head. When his mind registered all of what the Swede said, his eyes widened and he spoke in a hushed tone, "You _played_ there, tonight?"

"Ja," Skwisgaar confirmed bitterly, and shrugged. "You didn't ... _hear it_, did you?"

Toki shook his head again, and it was apparent to Skwisgaar that, unlike him, Toki was quite saddened by this. "No, I just got here now and saw you, so I thought I'd say hi. What are you doing out here? Where's the rest of your band?"

Skwisgaar nodded huffily back towards the bar. "In there. I got booted out, and they just laughed at me. I managed to get Thorsten's keys off him so that I could get my coat from his van-" Skwisgaar jiggled his pocket, indicating that he still had them, "-And then I found _these_-" he lifted his bottle and cigarette up to show the wide-eyed boy, "-So fuck them, you know?"

"Erm ..." Toki diverted his eyes from the angry blond, slightly uncomfortable. "I guess so."

Skwisgaar didn't notice Toki's uneasiness. "Ja. I'm going to be in shit when Thorsten finds out I have his keys. I thought about taking the van for a little joyride, but this is working out just fine." To further demonstrate his point, he took another sip of Vodka, and took a long drag from the cigarette, being very careful not to get any down his throat. To sputter and choke in front of the other boy was not acceptable. When the last vestige of smoke had left his mouth, he took another drink in order to kill the taste.

The Norwegian considered him, and then brought his knees closer to his chest. "If you're going to get into trouble, why do you do it?"

Skwisgaar's hazed brain tried to formulate a response, but he ended up shrugging. He thought the more appropriate question was why he remained where Thorsten would see him when he eventually burst angrily out of the bar. As that thought came to Skwisgaar, he tried to stand up. It proved to be difficult, and after waiting a long moment for the ground to stop moving beneath him, he managed to catch his balance on a looming streetlight. "Shit. Come on, Kid."

Even though the extent of Skwisgaar's intoxication was quite extreme, he still managed to catch the shakiness in Toki's voice. "Where are we going?"

The Swede shrugged again. "Nowhere in particular. Anywhere but here. Why don't you show me around a little bit? You must know this place pretty good."

Toki flinched as the empty bottle Skwisgaar flung into an alleyway shattered noisily. Hesitantly, he followed the blond as he began to stumble down the street. He grew slightly less weary when Skwisgaar put out his half-finished cigarette and then threw the rest of the pack into a trashcan. He jogged lightly to catch up, and then asked, "Are you all right?"

"Never better," Skwisgaar bitterly ground out, and then hiccupped. "I'll be sober in a little while. Do you live around here? You must live around here ..."

Toki shook his head. "No, I don't. I don't live in town. I just come with my parents when they're at church, or else I ride in."

"Ride?" Skwisgaar repeated, confused.

"On my bike," Toki smiled. Next to his guitar, it was his most favorite thing. "It's a little too far to walk. It takes a _long_ time."

There was a long pause while Skwisgaar's mind tried to process a question. "So, you come into town for church, but you don't ... _go_ to church?" That was odd. Skwisgaar had been under the impression that when parents were religious, they raised their children to be the same.

"No, not yet," Toki shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm not allowed in until I'm fifteen. My mother teaches me things at home, though. She's getting me ready for it."

A single, pale eyebrow rose on Skwisgaar's forehead. "You don't sound very excited about it."

"I'm excited!" Toki immediately denied with a frown. "I've been waiting for _years_ to-"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Skwisgaar waved him off. "I've just never heard of such a thing, before."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know, usually the parents'll take their kids in to, uh ..." he trailed off as he tried to think of the right word. With his fogged mind, though, he could not recall the verb 'indoctrinate'. He shook his head roughly, causing a throb of pain. "Never mind." Of course, if the boy's mother was instructing him in the home, indoctrination could definitely be coming into play.

Skwisgaar slowly came to a stop, and groaned lightly as he placed a hand on his stomach. He grimaced as he felt a mighty tumble within. "_Urgh_, I think I'm going to be sick. Hold on a minute, all right?"

Toki squeaked as Skwisgaar deviated from the street, held his long hair back, and then vomited between two garbage cans in a dark alleyway. When Skwisgaar had relieved his stomach of what ailed it and reemerged, Toki was pale, wide-eyed, and fidgety. "Are you okay?"

"It's just the booze," Skwisgaar waved him off. "It happens all the time." A sudden thought struck him as he pondered Toki's cluelessness. "You've ... never been drunk, before?"

Toki shook his head, and then took to following him again as they carried on. "No, my mother says that drinking is what bad little boys do. I'm not a bad boy; I'm a _good_ boy."

Skwisgaar smiled crookedly, and sloppily ruffled Toki's hair. "That you are."

The Norwegian didn't take it as an insult, as it was intended to be, and so beamed. "That's why I'm going to Heaven. Where are _you_ going? Do you know?"

"Nowhere," Skwisgaar shrugged with the smallest of scoffs. "I don't believe in that crap." He added as an afterthought, "No offense."

Toki smiled again, a little arrogantly this time. "That's okay. That means more room for me to play, and more time to pal around with the angels."

"You mean like Gabriel and Michael?" Those were the only two names that Skwisgaar could recall from so long ago, and with his slowly sobering mind. He remembered something about St. Peter, but he didn't think the guy was actually an angel. He knew for _sure_ that Jesus wasn't. He was a much more important guy, or something.

"No," Toki frowned. "I mean like Abaddon, Eurynomos, Baal, Lucifer-"

"Lucifer?" Skwisgaar repeated in surprise. He didn't recognized the first three names, but that one he _definitely_ knew. "What's _he_ got to do with your church, or beliefs, or whatever?"

"Well, you know, people always say that Lucifer and Satan are of the same make, but that isn't true," Toki stated matter-of-factly. "That was a lie, made up by Yahweh and Satan, because they work together in ruling the afterlife. You know, Yahweh takes care of the one Heaven, and Satan rules over Hell. Lucifer took his best pals to create a new Heaven, where Yahweh and Satan couldn't rule over _his_ people. Yahweh is a mean, jealous god, but Lucifer is a nice one. If you're bad, you go to Hell. If you're only an okay person, whatever, you get to go be with a mean guy who doesn't treat you any better than the devil would. If you stay on the _right_ right path, you get to bypass Yahweh's heaven, and join Lucifer and his pals in eternal paradise!"

"... Huh." Skwisgaar commented, quite literally blown away by this young boy's twisted belief system. "I can't say I've ever heard that before."

"Wouldn't doubt it," Toki shrugged his statement off, and was beginning to brim with excitement again. His voice shook ever so slightly, and his cheeks were flushed. "It was my father that Lucifer first visited on Winter Solstice. He came to him right after I was born, and told him the Truth. I'm very special," Toki gloated. "My fifteenth birthday party is going to be _so_ much fun!"

Skwisgaar was unsure of how to respond to that. The fact that this little kid was spewing off such rubbish as though it were true amused him to no end, but it was also slightly chilling that Toki and his family worshipped some askew version of the devil. He eventually replied with the only question he could think to ask. "How old _are_ you?"

"Thirteen," Toki brightly told him with absolutely no hesitation. "Only a year and a half left now until I'm finally let in! I've already started counting down on my calendar. What about _you_? You must be pretty old. You sure are big! Wowie!"

To elaborate on this point, he craned his neck to look up at the towering Swede walking beside him. Skwisgaar laughed openly at this gesture, and then shoved his hands into his jacket's pockets. "Nah, I'm not much older than _you_. I just turned sixteen a few weeks ago."

Toki furrowed his eyebrows as he did some quick math in his head. "Only three years older? You're almost three feet _taller_ than me!"

Skwisgaar laughed again. He was tall, yes, but he wasn't _that_ tall. He'd reached six-foot-five at the end of April and was still going strong. He was, at most, a foot and a half taller than Toki, but that would probably change when the Norwegian fully hit puberty. As far as Skwisgaar could tell, he hadn't. Besides being short, his voice hadn't deepened and his face remained clear of any sign of stubble.

"You'll get taller," Skwisgaar told him. "You'll get about as big as your parents. I'm taller than my mom, so I guess my dad was tall ..."

He trailed off, and sealed his lips against any such further information that might make a bid for escape. Toki, however, being an observant youth, caught his slip-up. "Your father is dead?"

The Swede had always been a fan of giving vague answers. He shrugged in what he hoped came off as an apathetic manner. "I don't know."

Toki began to bite his bottom lip in confusion. Skwisgaar wondered momentarily if the young boy was unaware that not all families were complete. "He's alive, but you never see him?"

No, Toki didn't realize that there wasn't always a mother, father, and son to fill a household. "That's right."

"Why not?"

Skwisgaar shrugged for two reasons. One, he wasn't entirely sure himself, and two, he really didn't want to talk about this with some kid who wouldn't even get it if he were to try and explain. His mind raced for a way to veer off this topic, and he hoped that it wasn't _too_ obvious that he was avoiding the subject when he posed his next question to Toki. "So, how's your guitar playing?"

Their eyes met, and the younger boy looked away bashfully when he realized that Skwisgaar's father was a touchy subject. Out of his growing respect for the Swede, he dutifully answered. "It's okay. I can play a little better now, but I'm still nowhere near as good as you."

Skwisgaar smirked, and raised his chin a little higher. So, he'd left such an impression on Toki that he still remembered how good he'd been? "That's good. So, you're saving up, or something?"

"Yes, I'm going to buy a guitar just like the one _you_ have," Toki stated proudly. "I've wanted a Flying V ever since I saw one in Oslo. They're so cool, right?"

The Swede smiled at the fact that Toki was asking him for confirmation. "Ja, they are. In all honesty, it wasn't my first choice, but I like them."

This baffled the Norwegian, if his newfound shortness of breath and wide, unblinking eyes were anything to judge by. "What else could you possibly want?"

"An Explorer," Skwisgaar answered right away. "But they're _so_ expensive, and I couldn't wait any longer until I got a new guitar. My old one was pretty much falling apart, and if I didn't buy one soon, I wouldn't have one at all. I like Flying Vs, though, so it's okay. When the time comes, I'll pawn it off so that I can buy an Explorer. Hell, maybe when you get enough money, I'll sell it to _you_."

Toki beamed at these words, and succumbed to a reverie in which he held Skwisgaar's Flying V guitar as his own. His own sigh of happiness commingled with the Swede's, as he too fantasized about his dream guitar. Skwisgaar remembered the first time he laid eyes upon it, in Kristiansand. He had stumbled upon the music shop only a few minutes after discovering the power that metal held over him, and spotted a Gibson Explorer in the display window. Though the guitar hadn't initially captivated him - he thought it looked slightly awkward in design - he took to them later on when he heard the sound they made and discovered how comfortable he was behind one. Fondness turned to obsession, which fuelled him on towards finally obtaining his preferred model of six-stringed glory.

"How much money would I need?" Toki asked as his daydream ended.

Skwisgaar pondered it. He was almost hesitant to tell Toki how much he'd spent on his Flying V, since it was probably an amount that the boy had never even fathomed before. The fact that he took great care of the guitar ensured that he would not ask much below the retail price, and raised the likelihood that Toki would not be able to buy it from him.

"Well?" Toki prompted him when he hadn't replied.

Skwisgaar rubbed the back of his neck, and regarded Toki carefully. "You _do_ realize how expensive they are, right?"

The corners of Toki's mouth twitched downward, and he slowly nodded. He knew that the number Skwisgaar was about to give him wasn't going to be within his spending range.

The Swede slowed and turned to face Toki when he too had stopped. "I paid sixty-eight hundred krones for it."

Not unlike a fish, Toki gaped at him. He had expected a big number, but not _that_ big! When his surprise had subsided slightly, a grimace succeeded it, along with a sad, drawn-out exhalation. "Oh."

"Ja," Skwisgaar kicked at the street. "It was a major purchase. It took me _years_ to save up."

"How many?"

Skwisgaar studied the brunet, chewing on his bottom lip. "You're sure you want to know?"

Toki thought about it, and then nodded fiercely.

The Swede gave him a few seconds to retract his decision before telling him just how many years he waited to touch his Gibson. "Seven."

Skwisgaar could tell immediately that Toki regretted learning this information. The boy's shoulders slumped, and the his mouth contorted into one of the most pathetic pouts that he had ever seen. Toki's eyes fell to the ground, and he sighed miserably before muttering, "Oh. I've only been saving for a few months, now. I've got a ways to go, huh?"

Instead of confirming Toki's question, Skwisgaar opted to place a hand on his shoulder. This prompted Toki's gaze to return to him, and he gave him a watery smile. "You'll get one some day. Just be patient. It'll all be worth it."

Toki cheered up a little bit at his words of comfort. Skwisgaar patted him once more, and then continued on his way down the street. Toki fell into stride next to him. "I guess I'll be okay until then. When I get my guitar I sure am going to be good!"

Skwisgaar laughed slightly. "It'd be pretty sad if you didn't get any better at the guitar after seven years of practice. I mean, look at _me_ ... _I've_ been playing for seven years, and _I'm_ the best guitarist around!"

This was usually the cue for whoever he was conversing with to roll their eyes, tell him that he was too arrogant for his own good, and leave him in favor for someone a little less aware of their artistic capabilities. Toki, being young, impressionable, and having taken to Skwisgaar like a duck to water, did no such thing. He merely smiled - rather smugly, because this was his _best friend_ who was the best guitar player in the area - and nodded knowingly. "I've never seen anyone play the guitar like you. I've been trying to do the things you were doing when we played together that one day, but I can't. It's too hard." He frowned. "You play really fast, and my stupid fingers can't keep up."

Where had this kid _been_ all of Skwisgaar's life? He always knew exactly what to say to stroke the Swede's immense ego and to feed his always-hungry pride. He grinned down at the kid, but Toki wasn't looking at him. He was still frowning - staring at the ground - and was chewing pretty steadily at the inside of his cheek. It looked as though he was about to slip into a miniature bout of depression over their previous discussions. Skwisgaar couldn't really blame him; being around such an excellent guitar player, learning just how far he had to go before finally obtaining the object of his desire, and all the other stuff probably didn't leave Toki feeling too good about his situation in life.

"Hey, cheer up," Skwisgaar told him. "Like I said, things'll come around when they come around."

"I'm not sad," Toki shook his head. His tone wasn't put-out, but pensive. "I was just thinking."

"Ja?" Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow slightly. He knew what all Toki had on his mind, so he didn't really think it necessary to ask him to elaborate.

"Ja." It actually _didn't_ have anything to do with what they'd been talking about so far that night. Not really. "Do you remember when we played together, before you went home on the bus?"

Skwisgaar nodded. Of _course_ he remembered. Out of everything that had happened to him in the past few weeks, meeting Toki was the only thing that he held in high regard.

"Why did you _really_ say no to teaching me?" Toki slowly asked. "Did you think that I was just some dumb little kid who wouldn't leave you alone?" His eyebrows arched, and Skwisgaar was sure that if Toki were a puppy, he would have scooped him up right then and there to take him home.

"Eh ... there were a lot of reasons," Skwisgaar skirted around his answer. He fully intended to give Toki the truth, yes, but the Norwegian's suggested reason was much too cynical to be ignored. "What makes you think I thought you were a dumb kid?"

Toki refused to make eye contact with him. When he spoke, it was at his shoes. "It's just something Ronk said, when I went into his store yesterday."

"What did he say?" Toki had hardly said anything, and Skwisgaar was already beginning to feel a strange animosity towards whoever this dildo was that hurt the young boy's feelings.

"Oh, well, nothing really," Toki's poor attempt at breeziness made it all the more apparent that he was hurting inside. "He said that he'd already told me I couldn't come around there anymore, and that I was weird. He said I was a dumb little kid that needed to grow up." His bottom lip trembled, but Skwisgaar didn't catch it in the darkness.

He himself was staring ahead, his jaw set and eyes narrowed. "He _actually_ said those things to you?"

Toki nodded.

"Then fuck him," Skwisgaar immediately rebuked. "If he's going to be a dick, then he isn't worth your time." He had enough experience on this subject to expertly say so.

"I like him, though-"

"Do you like him being mean to you, Toki?" Skwisgaar asked, and then continued on when the little Norwegian desolately shook his head. "Then don't go around him. All he's going to do is hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to be your friend, as harsh as that sounds."

"But ..." Toki started to formulate an argument against what he was being told, but faltered. Skwisgaar was older, and wiser as a result. He probably knew what he was talking about. He sure sounded like it. So, instead, he ventured, "... _You're_ my friend, right?"

Skwisgaar nodded before he began to really think about it. He wanted to cheer Toki up, but this _was_ something that gave him pause. _Were_ they friends? They'd only hung out a few times, now. He couldn't deny that he was growing to enjoy Toki's company more and more as time passed. He guessed that eventually they would be close enough to be considered friends.

Toki swelled along with his previously deflated self-esteem. "That's cool. We're good friends, you and I. Ronk is mean, but you're nice. _Really_ nice. No one's ever been this nice to me, before."

Skwisgaar opened his mouth to ask about Mr. and Mrs. Wartooth, but then stopped himself. He still didn't want to talk about them. He tried to think of a cover for why he was about to speak, but it proved unnecessary when Toki carried on. "So, you said there were a lot of reasons why you said no about teaching me?"

Ah, yes, _this_ subject. "Well, like I said then, I was having a bad day. I got drug up here by an old bandmate of mine, I was mad that I didn't have any money to get home, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with anything else, let alone giving out guitar lessons."

"Oh, I see," Toki nodded cheerfully. He had been worried that _he_ was the one responsible for the other boy's irritation that day. But, Skwisgaar was already annoyed when they first met. "So, _would_ you teach me to play the guitar? I know how we could do it, if you say yes."

Against his will, Skwisgaar became intrigued by Toki's words, not to mention their sly deliverance. Had Toki maybe been thinking about this for a while? Did he want to learn _that_ badly from him? "And how's that?"

Toki's face lit up with excitement. When he spoke, he did it quickly, and rather breathlessly. "Did you see how much money we made, that one day? I mean, how much _I_ made, and then how much _you_ made? If you taught me on the street, I bet people would pay us as they pass. You could take the money we earn, if you want. Once I get good enough, I could start earning my own money-"

"Don't be stu - silly," Skwisgaar waved him off. "I'm not taking all the money. If you ever want to get that guitar, you'll need some of it, too. We'll split it evenly. I'd need transport money, and just a small portion of the leftovers to work my way up to affording an Explorer. You've got a longer way to go, so it's only fair-" Skwisgaar halted. Wait a minute. Did he just agree to all this?

"You'll do it?" Toki seemed to think so, as well.

"Now - hold on a minute," Skwisgaar furrowed his brows in thought. "I have school, and Al Il El-"

"Isn't your school out now for the summer, though?" Toki asked. "The ones _here_ are."

"Ja, it is. You're right," Skwisgaar nodded slowly. "But Al Il El ... I don't know how much we're going to be playing. I'm sure Thorsten will want to have the odd practice, but I don't see many gigs coming up, after how shitty our last few went."

"Well, that's okay," Toki told him. "If you're going to play with them, then do it. We could, you know, plan around it. The band comes first, right?"

"... Right," Skwisgaar hesitantly agreed. He actually wasn't too sure about that. He didn't feel as though Al Il El deserved to be a priority of his. He knew that Thorsten would pester him as frequently as ever when they returned to Eda. Whatever. Thorsten didn't have to know that he was skirting practice to pursue monetary ventures in another town. Skwisgaar would gladly tell him that, though, were he confronted on it. He would do anything to piss the frontman off, in the moment. It wasn't a good idea for his physical health, but he wasn't thinking about that right now. "So, when will we meet? Have you thought about _that_, yet?"

"Ja, I have," Toki cheerfully told him. "I come into Lillehammer for sure on Sundays, when my parents go to church. I could ride in, too. When else do you think?"

Skwisgaar pursed his lips in thought. "Well, if you want to progress quickly, I'd say that we should meet at least three times a week. Sunday would be good, ja, since _I_ won't be in church. Maybe ... Tuesdays and Fridays, too? Would that work?"

"Any days will work!" Toki agreed right away. "I'll bike into town. Should I meet you at the bus station? Is that how you'll be getting here?"

"I don't have much other choice." Skwisgaar shrugged. "Ja, that should all work."

"Well, if you don't like riding the bus ..." Toki narrowed his eyes and bit his bottom lip in thought. "I could always come to _your_ town-"

Skwisgaar stopped walking. Before he could catch himself he turned on Toki, his eyes livid, and hissed, "_No!_ You're not coming to Eda!"

Toki flinched at the severity of his tone, and took a step backwards. His previously cheerful demeanor disappeared as it was replaced by confusion. He tried to think as to how he had offended the blond, but came up with no plausible reasons. "I'm sorry ... maybe not, then, Skwisgaar?"

There was something in the way Toki said his name that completely abolished his anger. Perhaps it was the innocence ... yes, that was it. Toki didn't know what his mother was like, and Skwisgaar wasn't about to introduce him to her. That would just be _cruel_, to bring Toki into the real world in such a way.

"Uh ... right," Skwisgaar's body relaxed as he realized that he'd somewhat frightened Toki, and he too apologized, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to say it like that. It's just ... ja. Let's do it in Lillehammer. You don't want to come to Eda. It's a crappy town."

Toki wanted to ask Skwisgaar what was _really_ wrong with his home, but judging from the way he just acted, this wasn't a good idea. He'd learn nothing, and just serve to annoy Skwisgaar in the process. He didn't care anymore, what Ronk said - he wasn't annoying. He _knew_ that, for sure. Why would Skwisgaar want to be around him, if he was? Skwisgaar was about twenty times cooler than Ronk would ever be, and _he_ said that _Toki_ was, too.

This thought cheered the little Norwegian up, and relieved him of the small amount of doubt and fear that he felt. As he commenced to follow Skwisgaar through the town, he carefully avoided asking any questions or bringing up any topics that could possibly bother the older boy. When they finally went their separate ways, Toki bade him good-bye with a small wave (he didn't think Skwisgaar would much appreciate a hug, however badly Toki wanted to give him one), and ran back towards the church to find his parents. It didn't bother him that Skwisgaar was so secretive about his home life, because they were best friends. That meant that Skwisgaar would have to tell him everything, at some point ...

And maybe, Toki thought, he would tell Skwisgaar a few things too.

* * *

**Just so you know, this is the last chapter of They Who Inherited The Earth that will be posted on . All chapters after this one will only be posted on Dethfiction. They can be found there under the username Freya.**


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